My shoes had been discarded at the bottom of the steps, and I walked atop the white hemisphere of the Boudhanath Stupa. The smell of incense was pungent in the air, and prayer flags fluttered in the wind. As I looked up at the intricate gold-carved spire adorned with vibrant greens, yellows, and reds, I could feel the sacred aura that this place held.
Yet when I looked down below from the raised stupa, the streets were bustling with tourists. Shops surrounded the stupa, filled with traditional and religious artifacts and statues, small enough to fit in a carry-on and make a great souvenir for a friend, reflecting an attempt at cultural understanding. Even guest houses and hotels surrounded the sacred place, which, assumingly, made a beautiful view for those hoping to truly have a “cultural experience.”
I wondered where my role was in this. Was it disrespectful for me to visit such a revered and sacred place without being religious myself? Where was the line between learning about a culture and encroaching too far upon it to the point of disrespect?
Of course, tourism helps cultural and religious sites economically; all foreigners paid a fee to enter the square, and donations were welcome after that. But did the commodification of this site for tourists corrupt its sacred divinity in the process? Was I contributing to this?
I wondered what the locals thought as I followed the other tourists to turn the prayer wheel, just as the director at my organization had shown us. Did they see a respectful visitor or just another tourist snapping pictures to post online and brag about all the beautiful historical places they visited?
Tourism is often seen as a form of “cultural appreciation” where people can broaden their world-view and educate themselves. Yet the line between appreciation and commodification seems thinner than ice and razor-sharp. Too often, I see “cultural tourism” turn into a space where experiences are bought, exoticized, and turned into a form of romanticized entertainment.
In the shops around the center, there were hundreds of options to buy a small Buddha statue, hand-painted mandalas, and even prayer wheels and flags, all clearly meant for the tourist’s eye. It wasn’t something overtly malign; for seller and consumer, it was sometimes an active effort to exchange culture, but it also seemed common to buy one of these sacred artifacts without also recognizing the complex history and significance of the object. Would these Buddha statues merely sit on a shelf collecting dust? Would these prayer flags lie on the floor as they were being hung up for aesthetic decoration?
As we walked the steps up to the Buddhist Monastery, there were several signs not to take pictures inside. Yet as I reached the top of the staircase, I saw people sneaking pictures inside from just outside the door, a loophole that seemed to ignore the whole point. As we walked inside and I put my phone into my pocket, I still saw people snapping quick pictures and looking to make sure they weren’t caught.
After observing the beautiful statues, I noticed my friend had sat in front of one of the monks who had offered her a prayer. After she finished, he motioned me over, and I sat. I wasn’t sure how to feel. I wanted to respect and accept what he offered me, but I felt uncomfortable knowing that this wasn’t my religion, worrying that it was disrespectful of me to take his time. Afterward, they asked for a donation: “1000 Rupees, 2000 or 3000.” I gave 1000.
As we left, my friend teased me, saying how I got scammed because I gave 1000 when they had only given about 100. Yet I didn’t feel like I got scammed; it didn’t even feel like a fair exchange with my donation. Their space of worship had been turned into a tourist attraction. To me, it felt as though the least I could give was a little over $7 for the time and energy they took to cater to the never-ending foreigners.
Walking back into the bustling streets full of chatter and cameras, it was a stark contrast from the incense-filled, near-silent room where you could feel the concentration in the air. Yet this contrast reflected exactly how complicated tourism in sacred places was. These places were layered and complex, full of devotion, exhibition, exchange, and sanctity all at once.
A place didn’t have to hold a binary of being sacred or exhibitionary; these perceptions weren’t exclusive. Maybe this was the uncomfortable and unresolved conclusion to the “respectful” way to be a tourist in sacred sites; there is no inherent “good or bad.” Being respectful doesn’t seem to be dependent on whether or not you visit, but on how you do it.
I can’t say that I walked away with a resolved answer, but that seems to be the point as well. Rather than assuming answers and concluding alone what it means to be the “respectful vs disrespectful tourist,” maybe we should try asking and learning. I’ve found that true cultural exchange occurs not dependent on whether or not you visit, but on how you do it and the choices you make along the way.
The entire structure of cultural tourism can’t be changed by me, nor can I undo my presence there. What I can do is pay more attention to the effect of my presence there. I can listen more than I speak; I can put down my camera and view these sights as a window into a different worldview.
