Armenian Street, George Town.
Not that long ago you could walk down this old street and feel it smiling back at you.
Sure the buildings were in various states of disrepair but they exuded a kind of harmony that comes with the unfettered passing of time. The old uncles and aunties, trishaw riders, school children, business owners, hawkers, all akin by virtue of the tacit fibres that weave together any long standing community. Now that’s all changed. The old shophouses are painted purple or bright yellow, they sell post cards, ice creams, souvenirs and host flash-packers. Almost no community left now, just generic tourist crap.
This talented Lithuanian street artist painted a mural of two children sitting astride a real bicycle melted into an old wall and, lo and behold, hordes of tourists started queueing up for the privilege of having their photo taken next to the mural. They pose with inane peace signs and gawky smiles. I guess it’s to impress their friends on social media.
All day, everyday, the tourists come to this trifling shrine of extraneous junk to photograph themselves effecting some kind of expectation of what it means to travel. Wearing tight shorts, a lacy blouse and a big floppy sunhat, another little Asian princess climbs down from her pedal cart to construct a self-obsessed pose in front of the famous icon. Ice ball in one hand, a peace sign with the other, she poses and smiles sweetly for the doting boyfriend juggling camera, cigarette and credibility.
I try not to watch but the predictability and futility of it all is compelling. Part of me views these people as unconscious and achieving nothing of any worth. On the other hand, they are smiling and having fun. My gripe is at what cost?
What has been sacrificed for these people to enjoy the kind of generic fun they could get by playing with their smart phones. The unique qualities of this beautiful old town have been unconsciously trampled to dust by the masses herding toward that ‘tourist attraction’.
I read somewhere recently about a seaside town in Portugal or Spain or somewhere on the Mediterranean where the historic old streets were being over-run by trash tourism. The locals, or at least the ones who weren’t making any money out of the tourists and just wanted a normal place to live, were getting really pissed by what was happening to their town. There was this new sculpture of a clown on a tricycle wedged into the base of an old wall. It looked like the clown was juggling the clumps of moss growing on the wall and the mindless went nuts for it. They’d jostle to get near it for a look. Whole bus loads would come from all over to see the stupid clown. The old buildings and markets and local artisans didn’t matter anymore. All the tourists wanted was to photograph the clown.
If you wanted to raise your status on social media, just post a photo of yourself making a peace sign next to the clown and you were the shit and a bit.
Perched on a hill overlooking the town stands an old fort with grand ramparts, stone merlons protecting the inner courtyard and a number of old canons. The fort was used in medieval times to protect the town from invaders trespassing from land or sea. It was now mostly abandoned and its history all but forgotten as all the tourists were otherwise occupied taking photos of themselves next to the clown sculpture. Rumour had it that, unlike in Penang with Seri Rambai at Fort Cornwallis, one of the canons was still in working order.
Some of the locals hatched a plot to rid their town of the awful tourist hordes . A canon had not been fired in anger from the fort since early in the 18th century but it was time for a big gun to once more protect the town.
In the early hours of a Sunday morning, with all the town tucked up in their beds, a band of partisans broke into the fort, stole the working canon and wheeled it down the steep path and into town. They set it up facing the clown, loaded a large canon ball, checked that there was definitely no one within target range and then blasted the bastard into oblivion.
The immense boom resounded through every boutique hotel, hostel and chalet in town. The streets quickly filled with confused locals and tourists alike but there was no sign of the culprits. All that was left of the iconic symbol was a huge hole in the old wall and a big pair of copper clown feet.
You would think that would put a halt to the tourist frenzy. The late clown was the new ‘heritage’ and without it, what was this town now worth?
Unfortunately, what the band of mercenaries had not counted on was the resilience of the tourist invaders.
Once word got out that a canon had blasted the shit out of the town’s icon, every man and his dog wanted to come there to have their photo taken making peace signs next to the giant hole in the wall.
More hotels & cafes sprung up nearby – The Hole in the Wall, The Missing Clown, Canon Blast Coffee.
The whole thing just got uglier, proving that violence never solves anything.
