Original Scientific Article
Responsible Tourism before 'Responsible Tourism'? Some Historical Antecedents of Current Concerns and Conflicts
John K. Walton
Ikerbasque, Instituto Valentín de Foronda, University ofthe Basque Country Spain john_walton@ehu.es
This article discusses the historical antecedents of what is now called 'responsible tourism,' taking into account the relationship between this concept and 'sustainable tourism.' It uses a comparative case-study methodology to identify and analyse precursors of 'responsible tourism' from the mid-eighteenth century onwards. Case studies cover the English Lake District, the English coastal resort of Whitby, the Spanish spa resort of Mondariz Balneario, the development of 'social tourism' in Mar del Plata (Argentina), and the Atlantic island of Lanzarote (Canary Islands). Each of the illustrative examples engages with different, but overlapping, aspects of 'responsible tourism,' and the article concludes that (despite the perils inherent in looking for the historical roots of a current concept) the approach taken is viable and conducive to a better understanding of the issues, not least because each case displayed its own distinctive complications and cross-currents. The final, extended case-study, which examines the role of the artist César Manrique in the rise of Lanzarote as a tourist destination between the 1950s and the 1990s, provides a particularly satisfying illustration of how the key elements of 'responsible tourism' might take root and develop under the right cultural and political circumstances, long before the concept had actually been articulated, and offer a genuine opportunity for policymakers to learn from historical example.
Keywords: responsible tourism; history; destinations; literary tourism; coastal tourism; spa resorts
Introduction
'Responsible tourism' as an articulated body of ideas and recommendations is a product of the twenty-first century, with firmly identifiable immediate roots in the late twentieth century. The concept has, however, a much longer prehistory in the mosaic of practices in destination resorts and national parks, in urban governance, and in aspects of the development of 'social tourism.' Such antecedents, while invariably embodying their own contradictions and never fully anticipating (still less articulating) the extensive agenda set out
in August 2002 by the Cape Town Declaration, can be found in the policies and activities of local and national governments, ngos, voluntary organisations, and even private companies (Cape Town Declaration on Responsible Tourism, 2002).
There is considerable overlap between what might be considered 'responsible' and 'sustainable' tourism; the former acknowledges its debt to the latter, whose assumptions underpinned the philosophy articulated at Cape Town. The first issue of the Journal of Sustainable Tourism appeared as long ago as 1993, and it
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now produces eight issues per year, demonstrating the fecundity of the concept for academics, opinion formers and policymakers, although the extent and nature of its impact 'on the ground' may be more debatable. Indeed, 'responsible tourism' can be regarded as a proposal to enable and reinforce sustainable tourism by providing a framework for focusing on specific, concrete outcomes in particular places. The focus on destinations means that 'responsible tourism' has more to do with impacts on localities, and on host societies, than on tourist practices as such, although given the interactive nature of the processes concerned this is more a matter of angle of vision than of separate compartments. There is an extensive body of past practice which might reasonably be identified with or assimilated to the 'responsible tourism' label; these antecedents can be identified in places throughout most of the complex trajectory of tourism in the modern world, from at least the mid-eighteenth century onwards. This should not be surprising, given that tourism as an industry requires the replication of satisfying experiences (including hospitality relationships) in attractive surroundings, so that operating 'sustain-ably' and 'responsibly' should be in the interests of service providers with a long-term commitment to their enterprises.
The Cape Town Declaration grew out of the Cape Town Conference on Responsible Tourism in Destinations, and insisted that 'tourism can only be managed for sustainability at the destination level' (Cape Town Declaration on Responsible Tourism, 2002). This article embraces that assertion, while recognising: that all tourism involves travel (with enormous environmental implications, especially carbon footprints for travellers by air, but with direct impacts on life on the ground at destinations); that it necessarily entails negotiation between locals and outsiders (brokered by intermediaries); that destinations are therefore anything but autonomous; that one of the purposes of the Cape Town Declaration was to empower local people who had been marginalised from decision-making processes and shut out by 'leakage' from the fruits of their labours; and that the complex interactions of'glo-calisation' are central to the understanding of contemporary tourism (Salazar, 2010). It explores questions of
'responsible tourism' in the past through brief introductory historical case studies of the management and development of five specific destinations: the English Lake District; the English coastal resort of Whitby; the Spanish mineral springs resort of Mondariz Balneario; the development of 'social tourism' in Mar del Plata, Argentina; and the distinctive experience of the island of Lanzarote (Canary Islands), which is developed further as the key post-Second World War example. The case studies, taken together, cover nearly a quarter of a millennium, from the mid-eighteenth to the late twentieth centuries, and take the analysis from the early tourist activities of self-consciously cultured elites to the kind of post-Second World War 'mass tourism' (an unduly simplistic label) which is associated with package tours and jets (Walton, 2009). This does not purport to be a representative sample of experiences: it is geographically skewed and is dominated by Western European and colonial settler societies, reflecting the current imbalance of available historical research. It does, however, give due weight to the importance of domestic tourism within nation-states, which may have different characteristics from the international tourist traffic flows which dominate the literature (Singh, 2009).
None of the examples presented below is unprob-lematic, as we might expect when looking for the imagined roots of a current concept, thereby incurring the risk of falling into anachronism. Some historians would regard a search for traces of 'responsible tourism before responsible tourism,' avant la lettre, as philosophically untenable and ipso facto illegitimate. I prefer not to be so pedantic, and I also believe that it is possible, indeed important, to learn from history. This point needs to be made at the outset, because (as in so many aspects of tourism studies) a commitment to the understanding of historical processes has thus far been conspicuous by its absence from the literature that is specifically directed at responsible tourism as a theme (and difficult to find in the understandably policy-orientated world of sustainable tourism); but to act responsibly, in a specific local setting, must always entail the achievement of a respectful apprehension of conflict, tension and community in the past, not least in relation to the history of tourism provision in itself.
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Each case-study entails the analysis of conflict and compromise between contending interests, which have sometimes involved alternative visions of'responsibility;' and problems arise from the very limited availability of historical studies of tourism labour forces, whether local or migrant, not least in the specific case-study locations (Walton, 2012b). Nevertheless, the opening out of a historical dimension to these questions will shed further comparative light on an important concept. We begin by introducing the key issues and concepts, and the ways in which they might be interrogated in the past.
'Responsible' and 'Sustainable' Tourism: Definitions and Contexts
The Cape Town Declaration of 2002 is an ambitious document. It divides the concept of'responsible tourism' into economic, social and environmental spheres, although there is inevitably a good deal of overlap and interaction between these categories. It seeks to promote respect for the local people, environments and economic systems in which tourism takes place, advocating the effective involvement of local people in decision-making and governance, and the development of culturally aware, positive interaction between locals and tourists or, in language it does not use, hosts and guests. It advocates collective engagement in conservation, and it specifically urges the promotion of access and enjoyment for the physically challenged and other excluded groups. In economic terms, it urges that the 'leakage' of the economic benefits of tourism beyond the area should be kept to a minimum and supports the locally-based small, medium-sized and 'micro' businesses that make such a significant contribution to tourism economies across the globe. It is at pains to safeguard cultural and ecological distinc-tiveness and diversity, while protecting local people (especially children) against sexual exploitation, and generally safeguarding the vulnerable against the consequences of the untrammelled machinations of the market. In so doing, it builds on and extends concepts of sustainable tourism, while trying to make them more enforceable, with considerable emphasis on a strong culture of genuine consensus-building, impact assessment and audit. In principle, respon-
sible tourism has the potential, however remote, to become sustainable tourism with teeth (Cape Town Declaration on Responsible Tourism, 2002; Lashley & Lee-Ross, 2000).
These are virtuous but demanding prescriptions, especially for corporations and hedge funds whose sole concern is to extract maximum 'shareholder value' in the short term in the form of rent derived from the exploitation of an asset. It is good to see ethics, long-term planning, responsive impact assessment and genuine asset management, collaboratively conceived, being given such weight. The focus on the destination is a refreshing reminder that while capital as well as tourists maybe mobile, restless and fickle, not all workforces are flexible and migrant. Destinations are places and have inhabitants with families. They also have histories, which form and inform their cultures.
Responsible tourism, like sustainable tourism, undermines assumptions about the need for never-ending growth and for the competitive extraction of maximum profits in the short run. It is therefore capable of providing a critical perspective of crucial importance, as it challenges a current deadly disease which has infected economic orthodoxy and policy formulation, in ways that are toxic for the future of humanity on a planet which has finite resources and suffers from a prevailing culture of empowering greed by slashing, burning and moving on. The famous Tourism Area Life Cycle model, whose logic is to reduce destinations to the status of a product (or, now, a brand) with a life cycle, assumes as natural that destinations will pass through all of its evolutionary stages to a point of over-development, saturation and crisis (Butler, 2006). We need to redefine success in tourist destinations in terms of carefully managed, non-disruptive development to an ecologically sound and socially equitable steady state, which can then be responsibly sustained, halting the 'cycle' at the point at which it provides satisfaction without doing damage, although this perspective does not help in dealing with the many destinations which have passed that point and are in need of rehabilitation. Taking this step necessarily entails recognising the necessity for intervention to restrain the damaging tendencies of competitive market
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forces, and it is difficult to see a successful future for responsible tourism without a committed programme of proactive planning and regulation by clean governments in dialogue with local people and business interests. This is, to say the least, a demanding agenda, especially when dealing with multinational corporations and institutionally corrupt, sometimes klepto-cratic governments. It cuts to the heart of current discontents.
Responsible tourism, like its close relative (and, in some senses, progenitor) sustainable tourism, needs to recognise the need for historical understandings of its concerns. It cannot afford to be merely present-minded. Occasional articles on this theme in tourism studies journals carry a historical dimension (Lambert, 2008), but 'history' is more often a key descriptive ingredient in 'heritage tourism' packages than a route to understanding antecedents, process and issues over time. The enduringly influential Tourism Area Life Cycle, whose agenda is highly relevant to sustainable and responsible tourism, ought to have a strong historical component, because it purports to analyse change over time as destinations pass through the imagined stages of the model; but in practice, with a few recent exceptions (for example Gale and Botterill, 2005), an understanding of historical approaches and procedures is conspicuous by its absence, and the stages of the model have tended to be 'read off' without research-based substantiation (Butler, 2006; Walton, 2009). Van der Duim's generally excellent book Tourismscapes, a valuable contribution to tourism studies at the strategic meeting point between anthropology, cultural geography and sociology, is typical of most such work (that of John Urry included) in displaying a 'tin ear' for history. In three pages, he provides a highly schematic tabulated summary of three 'waves' of international environmental concern, beginning in 1900,1970 and the late 1980s. If he had read any serious history, he would have become aware of much earlier conflicts and developments, of changes and contestation in the history of environmental thought, and of complexities and cross-currents rendering any attempt at such reductive simplification risible. It is curious that so many academics (and others) in tourism studies still treat
history with an absent-minded contempt that they would never dream of applying to any other discipline (Van der Duim, 2005, pp. 154-157; Walton, 2011; Walton, 2009).
'Social tourism,' intervention by the state or by voluntary organisations for the provision or enablement of access to holiday and tourism facilities to those who would be unable to enjoy them without assistance, is another dimension of responsible tourism, partially but not fully addressed in the Cape Town Declaration. There are significant historical dimensions to this phenomenon, and it also has a more recent guise of trying to channel the tourism activities of the well-off and mobile into empowering host communities and enhancing their quality of life (Minnaert, Maitland, & Miller, 2006; Walton, 2012a, 2012b).
History and Historians
As the core ideas of responsible tourism focus on furthering and promoting the understanding and cooperative management of the environment, society and culture of tourist destinations, the development of historical understanding is best pursued through case studies, or rather (given constraints of space) illustrative vignettes, which can elucidate aspects of the key issues in specific settings. The strong emergence of the productive sub-discipline of environmental history provides an essential context here, although it rarely engages directly with tourism as such (Mosley, 2010). It seldom uses the terminology of sustainable or responsible tourism, but where it engages with tourism-related issues, the relevance of its approaches becomes evident. Indeed, there are far too many relevant studies to discuss, or even cite, here, and what follows will necessarily be selective. There are few thematic book-length surveys over wide areas and long periods, but (for example) Hassan's study of seaside tourism, health and bathing water quality in nineteenth- and twentieth century Britain provides an excellent early example of the potential contribution of environmental history to understandings of the development of sustainabil-ity and responsibility in tourism. It pays due attention to politics and the role of municipal and national government, to environmental aesthetics and to relationships between public health and applied science,
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and makes the valuable transferable point that campaigns over (for example) bathing water quality were more likely to be focused on the consumer rights of surfers and swimmers as particular interest-groups, than on principled general concern about the sustainable use of resources (Hassan, 2003, p. 195). Mackenzie's work on hunting, conservation and access to and use of land and natural resources in the British Empire is about tourism (and the problems of sustainabil-ity, including relationships between governments and stakeholders) without actually saying so, pre-dating as it did the emergence of discourses of sustainability and responsibility, and illustrating what can be missed when research is based on mechanical word searches (Mackenzie, 1988).
There are also useful monographs based on intensive research on specific places, set in context. They include Lambert's book on the Cairngorms in Scotland, where a contested ski resort development raised a range of questions which were relevant to 'responsible tourism,' including conflicts between rival users of a cherished environment (Lambert, 2001); Garner's study of Arcachon, in south-western France, where the rise of coastal tourism had to negotiate its relationships with an established fishing community and a distinctive, fragile ecosystem; (Garner, 2005) and Chiang's examination of the fraught relationships between sardine fisheries and coastal tourism in Monterey, California, including debates over whether to commemorate the legacy of the sardine fishery as heritage tourism or to obliterate it as part of a rejected past (Chiang, 2008; Palumbi & Sotlea, 2011).
Alongside these more ambitious, contextualised historical ventures into what is undoubtedly the study of responsible tourism (and its discontents), even though the relevant vocabularies are not employed, there is a growing array of shorter, more narrowly-focused studies in article form, especially in environmental history journals. A few examples are noted here. Themes include conflicts between tourism and industrial uses, in destination settings which tend to identify tourism with support for rather than challenges to environmental sustainability; industrial employment is set against the less tangible, less measurable opportunities provided by tourism, with its demand
for seasonal, part-time, predominantly female labour. Here, questions of 'responsibility' are more focused on the values attached to alternative economic strategies and projected outcomes than on the activities of the tourism sector itself (Bryan, 2011; McFarlane, 2012). However, tourism itself often threatens the environments whose desirability made them into destinations. Australian contributions on the impact of foreshore development on sand dune ecosystems in Queensland, and of coral collection on the Great Barrier Reef over two centuries, have examined problems of environmental degradation, and responses to them. 'Responsibility' has had to be negotiated, here as elsewhere, and requires the informed consent both of tourists and of those who cater for them (Danaher, 2005; Daley and Griggs, 2008). The perceived needs of certain kinds of tourist experience have also led to the exclusion of aboriginal peoples from national parks in North America and, for example, from hunting grounds in parts of Africa and India, while in Australia Uluru/Ayers Rock has become a contested site and symbol between Native Australian people and White Australians at the 'heart of Australia,' with important tourism-related dimensions to the conflicts and negotiations. Although such exclusions have often been justified on the grounds of conservation of species and habitat, or protection of 'wilderness,' such justifications may provide a cloak of sustainability and responsibility behind which less reputable motives of commercial tourism promotion and social exclusion may lurk (Binneman & Niemi, 2006; Barnes, 2010; Mackenzie, 1988). Historical studies provide many such examples of the ambiguities and cross-currents in the rhetoric, practices and conflicts of tourism, but they tend to be hidden from the view of researchers who are interested in 'sustainable' and 'responsible' tourism as categories, because they usually deploy different keywords and a distinct vocabulary. There is a clear danger of work on these themes being impoverished not only by neglect of the historical literature, but also by researchers confining their reference base to ghettoes of those who share their conventional vocabulary, assumptions and cultures of citation, buying into the damagingly distorting world of impact factors and citation indices (Archambault & Larivière, 2009).
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Another half-hidden variation on the themes of sustainable and responsible tourism is the example of the National Trust, the enormous (more than four million members) English voluntary organisation which has ownership 'in perpetuity' of very extensive tracts of attractive and evocative landscape and coastline, and historic houses, which makes it a particularly powerful player in heritage and outdoor tourism, while giving it a 'reputation for power' and considerable political influence. Since its small beginnings in the mid-i89os, it has grown first steadily, then (after the Second World War) spectacularly; its unique commitment to permanent preservation, which was designed to move its properties out of the threatening turmoil of the market place without recourse to direct state intervention, has given it an almost unique commitment to sustainability. However, this in turn requires it to act as a practitioner of responsible tourism: to look to its financial stability, to sustain strong relationships with the members who fund it (which entails delicate negotiation over emotive and divisive issues such as whether fox-hunting should be allowed on Trust properties), to expand its membership numbers and social base, to consider the implications of sourcing and pricing policies for its shops and restaurants, to negotiate carefully with the tenants of its farms and the inhabitants of its local communities (not least about nature conservation and biodiversity issues), and to respect the interests and concerns of its neighbours. Here is a particularly interesting, and important, case-study in the management of responsible tourism, although identified generically with a national organisation rather than an individual destination; but, here as elsewhere, this terminology is not actually used in the existing literature (Walton, 1996; Waterson, 1999; Murphy, 2002; Hall, 2003).
Case Studies
It is appropriate that the English Lake District, which has been strongly associated with the National Trust since the organisation's origins, should provide the first of the brief case studies of destinations, which will now be offered to illustrate the role of historical research in understanding responsible tourism. It was one of the earliest tourist destinations in the modern
world, but it is not well known outside Anglophone cultures, because its distinctive identity since the early nineteenth century has been as a 'literary landscape' associated with the writings of a group of English poets, among whom William Wordsworth has the highest profile. In recent years, it has also attracted significant numbers of Japanese tourists, but here again the core attraction is literary: Beatrix Potter, who became a Lake District farmer and landowner, was the author of anthropomorphic animal stories, which are used to teach introductory English to many Japanese students. The Lake District has become a candidate for unesco World Heritage Site status, under a 'cultural landscape' rubric which was invented for it, and since the late eighteenth century it has been a cockpit of conflict between conservationists and votaries of silent appreciation and contemplation of landscape and ambience, on one hand, and advocates of recreational and sporting development, sometimes associated with a perceived (and positive) democratisation of tourism, on the other (Walton & O'Neill, 2004; Walton & Wood, 2013).
The Lake District emerged as a destination for tourists in the mid-eighteenth century, as new positive assessments of upland landscapes placed it on the itineraries of affluent travellers who were following the fashion for the 'discovery of Britain.' Its identity as a 'literary landscape' was reinforced and complemented when Wordsworth became a strong and sustained advocate of preserving the landscape and the existing rural social arrangements, which he romanticised as a 'republic of shepherds and agriculturists,' small farmers and proprietors who were the custodians of the landscape. The most popular vehicle for this agenda was a guide book, which was first published in 1810, became well known through its expanded fifth edition in 1835, and has remained in print. Wordsworth encouraged tourists, but only the kind that were able to make the effort and find the time to explore and contemplate. He understood that at a time of economic and social flux, and of transport innovation (he campaigned to keep the new railways out of the central Lake District), pressures for development would challenge his idealised vision of bucolic landscape and simple hospitality. His aim, as Garrett ex-
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presses it, was to save the landscape both for and from the people, so there were elements of elitism, exclu-siveness and paternalism in his values. Nevertheless, the power of the Wordsworth agenda to mobilise support was enduring, reasserted in the later nineteenth century by the art critic, polymath, social reformer and alternative political economist John Ruskin and by Canon Hardwicke Rawnsley, one of the founders of the National Trust; the same issues remain prominent in the case for unesco World Heritage Site designation. The Wordsworth agenda has been controversial throughout its existence, but there is no doubt that he and his followers deserve to be understood and assessed, critically, as pioneers of 'responsible tourism' (Wordsworth, 1835; Bate, 1991; Whyte, 2000; Garrett, 2008, p. 182; Walton & Wood, 2013).
TheexampleofWhitby, onthecoastofNorth Yorkshire in north-eastern England, is equally complex. Whitby was an old fishing and commercial port, but it was also one of the first modern locations for commercial sea-bathing, beginning in the early eighteenth century. During the second half of the nineteenth century, it developed a split but integrated personality. A conventional Victorian seaside resort was developed on the western cliffs, but the harbour area in the valley of the River Esk became attractive to tourists, often bearing paintbrush or camera, in search of the quaint, the picturesque, a fashionable 'other,' among the jumble of cottages and paraphernalia of the fishing industry, while the trade ofthe harbour generated interest of its own. These were not separate tourism markets, but overlapped, as the health and recreation tourism of the beach and cliffs coexisted with the romantic untidiness and suspect sanitation of the harbour zone. This was a satisfyingly sustainable economy, achieved by accident rather than design, not least because tourism dovetailed with other economic activities not only seasonally, but on a daily basis. Such arrangements were common to many seaports which developed coastal resort functions.
However, by the 1930s a new paradigm of public health and planning was emerging, driven by central government; and 'Old Whitby' was threatened with wholesale demolition as an unsightly health hazard, especially to its own inhabitants. Defenders soon ral-
lied, combining arguments based on historic preservation and artistic value with an appeal to economic self-interest: if the quaint streets of 'Old Whitby' were to be replaced by neat new houses, standardised and geometrically planned, it would look just like everywhere else in sanitised modern Britain, and the artists, photographers and tourists seeking the 'picturesque' would seek surviving alternatives elsewhere. Public health criteria would be sustained, but the town's economic equilibrium would be threatened. The harbour dwellers would be the beneficiaries of responsible, ameliorating intervention, but not all of them wanted it, although no effective consultation was ever reported; the redevelopment would also threaten the sustainability of a branch of the tourist industry that was firmly embedded in the town's economy. The 'responsible' line to take was not clear, with conflicting versions of what might (in effect) constitute 'responsibility,' and opinions were polarised. The Second World War interrupted the demolition programme, which had been delayed and diluted by the conflict; when it was restarted in the mid-1950s, it was soon halted again by changing policies and circumstances, as the surviving little houses became desirable 'second homes' or holiday lets, their value increased and government improvement grants became available. Meanwhile, the local authority had controversially constructed expensive replacement housing, which tried to replicate the informality and interest of the originals, and many visitors were unable to tell the difference. What, under these shifting circumstances, might constitute a 'responsible' tourism policy, in relation to other aspects of the local economy, society and traditions; and for whom? (Walton, 2005; Borsay & Walton, 2011)
The third example, Mondariz Balneario, is a resort business which helped to develop the economy of its surrounding area, rather than a town which had to adjust to a new identity as a destination resort. It was a family-run mineral springs or 'spa' resort which came to dominate the economy of a predominantly rural district in Galicia, near the Portuguese border in western Spain, from its origins in 1873, and was consciously managed with what would now be seen as sustainabil-ity and social responsibility in view, not least because
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the owners clearly recognised that this was in the interests of their business and brand, which embraced a substantial mineral water bottling trade for international distribution. Mondariz Balneario developed an influential national and international visiting public in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when (despite its enduring inconvenience of access) it became one ofthe most fashionable summer watering-places of Spain and Portugal. It brought together fashionable, political, literary and scientific figures (including prominent women writers) from Britain and Portugal as well as Madrid and Galicia while acting as a nursery for the early development of Galician nationalism. These developments also highlighted the role of two generations of members of the Peinador family, who ran the balneario from its effective inception in 1873 until it became a limited company in 1932, in creating a distinctive, high-profile identity for the resort while stimulating innovations in transport, advertising and publishing which were aimed at consolidating and extending the external visibility and reach of their establishment. The Peinador brothers, who managed the growth and heyday of the resort, were eager to become as self-sufficient as possible in local produce, campaigned for more effective policing and local services, stimulated local transport improvements, and encouraged the growth of complementary tourism-related businesses run by local people (Del Castillo Campos, 1992; Hooper, 2012).
This could be viewed as a model of sustainable and responsible tourism, looking to the benign economic development of a poor area which had suffered a high volume of emigration, generating extensive employment opportunities for local families (including many women), and promoting beneficial external interest in the district. The delights of local scenery were assiduously marketed, while local customs and architecture were celebrated. Nevertheless, there were crosscurrents. The Peinador brothers' efforts to take beneficial ownership of one of the key local mineral springs led to a bitter thirty-year lawsuit against the local authority, which argued that they were, in effect, privatising a public resource by legal sleight of hand. Local political networks, with connections in the national capital, were mobilised on either side. Conflict between
the business and the local authority became endemic, as the balneario proprietors complained of fiscal discrimination against their business; in 1925, they were allowed to secede to form their own municipality, the smallest in Spain. The local authority developed its own rival water-bottling plant. Finally, the founding brothers were unable to sustain the family business model through a new generation, and the whole enterprise was torn apart by the Spanish Civil War, to be resurrected under new auspices at the end of the twentieth century. Thus was an apparent exercise in responsible tourism moderated by sustained local conflict, accusations of fraudulent abstraction of resources, and the lack of a sustained succession strategy when the powerful personalities of the founders were removed from the equation (Del Castillo Campos, 1992).
As suggested above, 'social tourism' might be regarded as potentially yet another face of 'responsible tourism.' The concept embraces not only the disabled, but also families who would otherwise be excluded from tourist activities by poverty, and especially the children of poor and other working-class families. It has been prominent, under various auspices, in many European countries, especially since the 1930s. In the River Plate region of South America, especially in Argentina, its development was particularly strongly promoted, by government, large employers and trade unions, across the middle decades of the twentieth century, with roots in the authoritarian conservative governmentsofthei93osbutfullyfloweringafteri946, under the Peron governments. Indeed, Elisa Pastoriza argues convincingly that in Argentina, in particular, 'social tourism' promoted by national and provincial governments, trade unions and charitable foundations became such an accepted and established fact of life that Argentinians became unaware that theirs was a unique case. This entailed organisational and financial support for journeys and accommodation, while children's holiday 'colonies' were established, and established hotels were bought and converted to 'social tourism' uses. The most dramatic and symbolic dimension of these developments was in the coastal resort of Mar del Plata, which had been represented since the early twentieth century as both a national melting-pot and an elite playground, and now found
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that hitherto socially exclusive areas such as the Playa Bristol and its casino were opened out to the lower-middle and working classes. Mar del Plata became an accessible celebration of national unity and egalitarian pride. This might be regarded as a political version of the use of responsible tourism for democratic nationbuilding purposes, but the older elites preferred to go elsewhere, and the overall Peronist project always had fierce opponents, drawn from all parts of the political spectrum. Moreover, concern for accessibility and growth did not always spill over into a sense of environmental responsibility, while laws of property development, which were intended to extend the availability of seaside flats, led to speculative construction and the tearing down of attractive older neighbourhoods. Here, too, there were costs to set against the benefits (Pastoriza, 2011).
César Manrique and the Case of Lanzarote
As we bring the analysis into the age of the jet aircraft, the charter flight and the airborne package holiday, the case of Lanzarote, in the Canary Islands, is of particular interest. This might indeed be regarded as the essential, inspiring historical basis on which ideas about sustainable and responsible tourism can be grounded in space, time and process, and juxtaposed with the problems they face 'on the ground' even when promoted by a charismatic local figure. On this volcanic island near the African coast, from the 1960s until his death in 1992 (and beyond the grave), the artist César Manrique inspired and developed what Van der Duim plausibly represents as a distinctive kind of tourism which coincided with the new pressures of the last third of the twentieth century, and which might retrospectively be labelled as 'sustainable,' and certainly as 'responsible.' Indeed, Van der Duim uses the example of Manrique's 'legacy' to introduce the argument of his stimulating monograph on 'Tourismscapes' (Van der Duim, 2005, pp. 15-16).
A more developed interpretation of Manrique's importance is provided by Fernando Sabaté's excellent short presentation, which establishes his pioneering role in several aspects of sustainable and responsible tourism. He argues that, 'What Manrique projected (and in large part achieved) constitutes an example of
what is now known as sustainable territorial development,' a generation before the Brundtland Report. As Sabate suggests, Manrique was already working artistically with Lanzarote's spectacular volcanic natural features before tourism became paramount to the island's economy. He was looking to the future, beginning work on his Los Jameos artistic project in 1966, while the volcanic site at Timanfaya was already open to the public in 1970, before its designation as a national park, at a time when the annual number of foreign visitor arrivals was only just over 20,000. Manrique aimed to offer visitors more than just 'sun and beach,' wanting them to value the island's natural and cultural assets while rehabilitating and enhancing 'degraded spaces' like the old quarry site on which he created the Jardin de Cactus. He sought to educate by example and demonstration, and constructed itineraries across the island, linking the sites of interaction between nature and culture that constituted his large-scale artistic works, and sharing tourism revenue generation across the interior. He insisted that tourism must pay to sustain the landscapes it enjoyed, controversially introducing access charges at Timanfaya, and using them to generate social funds to counteract the adverse impact of unplanned tourism; he also talked with, and listened to, peasants and fishermen. He was able to achieve all this during the 1960s and 1970s by enlisting the active and enthusiastic support of the island's government and public administration, bridging the Spanish transition from the Franco dictatorship to a fledgling democracy. This adds up to a remarkably full inventory of what were later to be labelled as the salient characteristics of responsible tourism (Sabate Bel, 2012; Gomez Aguilera, 2001). With due allowance for context and change over time, there are significant parallels with William Wordsworth's role in promoting his prototype of 'responsible tourism' in the English Lake District (Walton and O'Neill, 2004).
Manrique, who has been described as 'painter, sculptor, architect, ecologist, conservator of monuments and buildings, urban development planner, (and) designer of landscapes and gardens,' was a native of Arrecife, the capital of Lanzarote, and from childhood was deeply attached to the dramatic volcanic coastal landscape of La Caleta de Famara. He
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returned to the island after enjoying an extended bursary in New York in the mid-1960s, where excitement at encounters with Pop Art, Op Art and Andy Warhol gave way to revulsion at the artificiality of the big-city rat race (Fundación César Manrique, 2012; 'La Mitad Invisible,' 2010; Antena, 1954-1965, 27 April 1965). His return to Lanzarote as his home base was permanent and committed, and he began to construct his house and gallery, El Taro de Tahiche, around a lava flow and using volcanic bubbles, completing it in 1968. Further artistic ventures, working with the island's spectacular natural features, followed in a sustained burst of creativity. Manrique identified tourism as a necessary route out of poverty for his fellow-islanders, but it was to be a distinctive form of tourism, one which went with the flow of nature and culture, and respected Lan-zarote's unique natural environment without damaging or degrading it (Gómez Aguilera, 2001).
The power of Manrique's vision made a highly visible impact from the mid-1960s onwards, when Lan-zarote's tourism industry was just beginning to make headway, a decade or more behind existing developments on the Balearic Islands (especially) and Spain's Mediterranean coast (Pack, 2006; Buswell, 2011). Lan-zarote had a long history of involvement in international commerce and the global economy: American crops such as potatoes and tobacco arrived in the eighteenth century, but successive booms in barilla harvesting and processing (providing soda ash for the nascent international chemical industry) and the preparation and export of the red dye cochineal (from insects infesting prickly pear plants) were both overtaken by chemical innovations that bypassed these raw materials. Emigration, especially to Latin America, also opened out distant horizons (González Morales, 2010). Tourism, however, was a late arrival on the scene: the first pamphlets for a tourist market on Lan-zarote's natural attractions did not appear until 1936, just in time for the Spanish Civil War to place everything 'on hold' (Acosta Rodríguez, 2007; González Morales & Hernández Luis, 2007; Martín Hormiga, 1995). Development picked up very slowly during the 1950s. Manrique painted murals for Arrecife's national Parador de Turismo, which originally opened around 1950 and was expanded between 1954 and 1957 in
response to gently rising demand (César Manrique, 2012; Antena, 1954-1965,16 February 1954; Acosta Rodríguez, 2007, p. 580). Nevertheless, in 1956 the arrival of 36 Swiss tourists by the Iberia mail flight (on two separate planes) was still a prominent news item on the island (Antena, 1954-1965,13 November 1956). In 1958, work began on an 11-kilometre coastal highway to open out eight beaches on the way to Playa Blanca, passing through (and giving access to) the area of the Tías municipality that became Puerto del Carmen, the epicentre of 'mass tourism' on Lanzarote in the late twentieth century (Antena, 1954-1965, 15 July 1958). By 1964, seven or eight charter flights a week were arriving from Tenerife, but direct long-distance flights were a thing of the future, and even in 1965, when the airport finally acquired an asphalt runway, the prospect of Fred Olsen Line sending regular groups of cruise passengers had a higher profile than airborne arrivals (Antena, 1954-1965, 14 April 1964, 27 April 1965). By 1969, when substantial improvements were being made to the airport, Arrecife had three sizeable hotels as well as the Parador, and its new urban plan allowed for a scattering of isolated ten-story buildings among the prevailing low-rise. However, this was still very small-scale, and Manrique's known antipathy to this kind of development was sufficiently widely known to constitute a barrier to the proliferation of large hotels and apartment blocks (Lanzarote: la Isla de los Volcanes, 1969).
Crucial to Manrique's influence was his friendship (from childhood) with José Ramírez Cerdà, who was President of the Cabildo, the governing body of Lan-zarote, between 1960 and 1974, an unusually long period which was also formative in the development of tourism on the island. The political dimensions of this association illustrate Manrique's willingness to work with the Franco regime for the good of his island (Martín Hormiga & Perdomo, 1995; Fundación César Manrique, 2012). This alliance was central to the implantation of Manrique's ideas, during a period of transition which saw tourist arrivals increase from just over 25,000 in 1970 to nearly 175,000 in 1981, with a growing international presence as the growth in Spanish visitors (around 40 per cent in 1970, but 22 per cent in 1981, although numbers increased nearly four-
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fold) was swamped by Germans (nearly 40 per cent in 1981) and other nationalities (in 1981, the British were just behind the Spanish, and Norwegians accounted for nearly 10 per cent of the total) (Acosta Rodríguez, 2007, p. 567). However, the transition to democracy in Spain from the late 1970s onwards, which coincided on Lanzarote with accelerating pressure for large-scale tourism development for international markets, led to a dilution of Manrique's influence.
According to a guide-book issued in 1969, at the dawn of the new age of airborne 'mass tourism' in this setting, Lanzarote offered 'Unimaginable contrasts of colour and landscape and, above all, the identification of people ('el hombre') with their geography. Here, strangeness and idiosyncrasy are at the core; in agriculture man dominates the land without doing violence to it [...] the architecture is rooted in simplicity, and even the silence of the island has its colour.' (Lanzarote: la Isla de los Volcanes, 1969) This is more than the usual purple prose of the guide-book industry, and it demonstrates a recognisably Manrique-influenced discourse aimed at a discerning niche market (with both initiative and spending power).
However, Manrique and his allies were unable to withstand the growing pressures for speculative coastal development, which became accentuated during the 1980s, when the volume of popular demand from northern Europe for family package holidays in sunny coastal locations really began to increase (Demetriadi, 1997). By 1991, Lanzarote was attracting over a million tourist arrivals per annum, and in the early twenty-first century the total was approaching two million (Acosta Rodríguez, 2007, p. 567). Manrique was already expressing disquiet about the tendency towards 'mass tourism' in 1978, and in 1986 he travelled to Madrid to present a manifesto against the 'urban chaos and architectural barbarities' of new developments for less discriminating new markets. He produced a cri de coeur of protest against the new unplanned developments, addressing himself to the island person-ified:'[...] those who have fought to rescue you from your enforced isolation and the poverty which you always suffered, begin to tremble with fear when we see how you are destroyed and submitted to massifi-cation. We realise just how futile our accusations and
cries for help are to the ears of speculators in their hysterical avarice and the authorities' lack of decision that sometimes tolerates and even stimulates the irreversible destruction of an island [...]' (Van der Duim, 2005, pp. 15-16; Gómez Aguilera, 2001, pp. 118-19) In 1992, Manrique was killed in a traffic accident, and although Lanzarote was designated as a unesco biosphere reserve in the following year, the spread of unplanned lowest-common-denominator (though not high-rise) development along the east coast traded increased tourism income against chaotic urbanisation (Fundación César Manrique, 2012).
In 2010, after the long development boom had broken and a strong of planning violations and illegal hotel developments came to light, unesco was reported to be considering the withdrawal of Lanzarote's status as a biosphere reserve (Brooks, 2010). By 2012, the feature on Manrique on the promotional website Lan-zarote Island was presenting him as purely and simply an artist, with no mention of his environmental and sustainable/ responsible tourism campaigns. This might be regarded as a neat way of appropriating those elements of his life and work that were digestible for current tourism policies, while marginalising the inconvenient truths he spoke to the powerful, in ways that are reminiscent of the treatment of the art critic and radical political economist John Ruskin in the English Lake District (César Manrique, 2012; Hanley & Walton, 2010, ch. 7).
This reminds us that Manrique was not unique. As Van der Duim points out, and as the actor-network theory he uses assumes, influential figures who were integrated into international networks, capable of articulating and making use of connections between the local and the global, and able to mobilise powerful figures in government, were capable of making a difference to patterns of tourism development in other settings. The case of the poet Robert Graves, who may have used his contacts with General Franco's tourism minister Manuel Fraga to help to preserve Mallorca's rugged north-western coast (and his home at Deiá) from large-scale and intrusive tourism development, is far from being an exact parallel; but it might fit Van der Duim's model rather well (Van der Duim, 2008; Waldren, 1996). On a broader canvas, if we relate the
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debates over the development of the national park network in the United States to a historical agenda for responsible tourism, the evangelical role of John Muir, his engagement with government and opinion formers, and the debates over the role of tourism in national parks might usefully be seen as anticipating the issues raised by Manrique's interventions; but one of the delights of history is that it never repeats itself precisely across time, space and cultures (Worster, 2008; Huntley, 2011).
Nor was Manrique unsuccessful, though he lamented his failure to live up to his own exacting expectations. He may have 'lost' the eastern coastal strip on both sides of Arrecife and its airport, between Costa Teguise and Playa Blanca, from the 1980s onwards; but the rest of the island bears few scars. As in the case of Mallorca's north-west, this outcome was considerably assisted by basic geographical conditions: neither the terrain nor the prevalent strong winds in the north and west were conducive to the conventional 'sun and beach' tourism that would have stimulated unplanned development on an intrusive scale. Nevertheless, Man-rique's moral authority and reputation for power must have played their part, just as William Wordsworth and John Ruskin, and the followers of their traditions in England's National Trust, set intangible barriers to certain kinds of intrusive development, challenging their legitimacy in the Lake District (Walton and Wood, 2013). Moreover, a large number of 'sun and beach' tourists take excursions to the sites associated with Manrique's syntheses of nature, art and culture, encountering spaces and stimuli which would otherwise have remained beyond their experience. The impact of this is no less valuable for not being readily measurable, and tick-box questionnaires with predefined alternative responses would not achieve that McKinseyan goal.
Pulling the Threads Together: Implications and Conclusions
The core argument of this paper is that responsible tourism has a history, or indeed several histories, and that this is not of mere antiquarian interest. It has practical value, and practitioners can learn from it. The case studies developed in preceding paragraphs demonstrate the complexities entailed in learn-
ing from the past, and we should not be surprised that each of them brings out different aspects of a proto-responsible tourism agenda. We cannot expect tidiness or uniformity, but we can hope to be stimulated by transferable themes.
As the literature on sustainable tourism expands, there is a danger that it will tend to focus on narrow current case studies, which may bring economic benefits for firms seeking to use the concept for the maximisation of profit. The same may come to apply to responsible tourism, as these ideas become desirable labels to justify projects and practices by mechanically following check-lists and reducing the whole to less than the sum of the parts. A review of the literature from this perspective is beyond the scope of the present paper. For the academic discussion of responsible tourism to promote real sustainability and responsibility, and to avoid a cumulative 'greenwash' effect, it will be necessary to keep a close eye on the founding principles, and to look at the developing themes and arguments holistically in local contexts. Responsible tourism needs to be more than just another way of laying claim to virtue in the pursuit of financial gain. If its goals are pursued in a principled and convincing way, it will come into systematic conflict with the profit-maximising, top-down and centre-outward, imposed line management orthodoxies of most big business, in an environment where it is impossible to hold management to undertakings that may damage profit levels (Thompson, 2003). It needs to be able to deliver on its ideals, as set out so eloquently at Cape Town; and this will entail the subverting of the established assumptions of the market place. It also needs to be audited qualitatively, in dialogue with all the stakeholders, and without resort to the reductive use of check-list 'consultations' whose questionnaires set their own agenda of inclusion and exclusion. Without such a revolution in attitudes and behaviour, as César Manrique found, all the audited good intentions in the world will be undermined by the destructive corporate forces of insensate greed. This is a central challenge for our times.
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