Science

But there are concerns that tourism revenue could override the demands of scientific research.

About 50km from Ping’e, developers have built what they say is the highest viewing platform, which overlooks Dashiwei, the second-deepest sinkhole in the world. Tourists can peer 500m down into this particular “heavenly pit”.

“We should better protect such habitats,” says Dr Lina Shen, a leading sinkhole researcher based in China. “Sinkholes are paradises for many rare and endangered plant species. We are continuing to make new discoveries.”
By studying sinkholes, scientists also hope to find out how the Earth has changed over tens of thousands of years, and better understand the impact of climate change. At least one sinkhole in Guangxi has already been closed to tourists to protect unique orchid varieties.

It’s the culmination of years of exploitation and maltreatment, said writer Chris Christou, who produces “The End of Tourism” podcast. “In the last decade, especially in southern Europe,” Christou told me in an email, “we’ve seen local movements sprout and mobilize —typically from the grassroots Left — against the relentless conversion of home into a veritable theme park for ignorant foreigners.” Christou has documented the industry’s long train of offenses: environmental degradation; cultural appropriation and what he calls petrification (“the stasis or congealing of culture’s flow or growth”); spiraling economic inequality; the Airbnbization of dwelling; gentrification and displacement; corporate and government nepotism; the revolving door of corruption between tourism bureaus and industry; the rise of an extremely precarious labor force; and, not least, “the spectacled surveillance of place that effectively turns home, for local residents, into a turnstile Disneyland.”

If you love a place,” a retired ranger who worked at the Grand Canyon once told me, “don’t make it a national park.” On a typical visit to Grand Canyon National Park during the summer, you will first find yourself stuck in traffic backed up a mile or more from the entrances, the idling cars belching fumes. When at last you snag a parking spot and, with everyone else, debouch onto the hiking trails, you’ll find food wrappers, toilet paper, discarded clothing, and plastic bottles, courtesy of the previous blast of visitors. You will experience, alongside the glorious vistas, your fair share of the stink of human feces and, at choice spots for taking a piss, the piercing ammonia perfume of urea.