In the world of travel, the words we use are as important as the maps that guide us. Katarina Railko, a leading voice in the hospitality and tourism industry, joins us to unravel the subtle yet powerful influence of colonial-era language on modern travel. Our conversation will explore how centuries-old metaphors, from the “Venice of the East” to the concept of “lost civilizations,” continue to shape our perceptions and, at times, limit our experiences. We’ll examine why these narratives persist in marketing and even architecture, and discuss how travelers can move beyond these clichés to connect more deeply with the places they visit.
Nicknames like “Venice of the East” are still used for cities from Hanoi to Alleppey, often to highlight their canals. How does this Eurocentric framing shape a traveler’s initial perception, and what specific local identity gets lost when a place is presented as a copy?
It’s a deceptively simple comparison, but it carries so much weight. When you label a city the “Venice of the East,” you’re not just talking about canals; you’re immediately placing it in a hierarchy. You’re telling the traveler that its value is best understood through a European lens, with Venice as the gold standard of beauty and commerce. Language doesn’t just describe a place; it shapes our entire relationship with it. These metaphors, even when used unintentionally, establish Europe as the default benchmark for “civilization.” The local identity becomes secondary, an echo of something else. A city with its own unique history of trade, culture, and life on the water isn’t allowed to just be itself; it’s forced into the role of a derivative, a copy of a colonial power’s ideal.
Marketers often use familiar metaphors as convenient shortcuts. Beyond convenience, what deeper colonial-era impulses does this reflect, and what are the first steps the travel industry can take to create new narratives that celebrate a location’s unique history and character?
Convenience is certainly the surface-level answer. Marketers love a recognizable shortcut. But beneath that lies a much deeper colonial hangover—an ingrained impulse to flatten entire continents into easily digestible soundbites. I remember a traveler in the Himalayas once pointing out the absurdity of it. He said you could never ask a Westerner to summarize all of Europe, from Scotland to Bulgaria, in a single sentence, yet they’ll attempt it for Asia or Africa without a second thought. The first step for the industry is to consciously break that habit. It means moving away from lazy comparisons and investing in telling richer, more specific stories. It’s about celebrating a place on its own terms, highlighting its unique character and history rather than searching for a familiar European parallel to make it palatable.
Phrases like “lost civilization” are used to describe places like Machu Picchu, framing them as relics frozen in time. How does this language misrepresent living Indigenous cultures, and how can guides or tour operators better communicate the modern, evolving reality of these communities to visitors?
That language is incredibly misleading. Terms like “lost civilization” or “untouched land” create a powerful sense of mystery, which is certainly appealing to travelers, but they also paint a picture of a world that is static and disconnected from modern life. People arrive in a place like Peru expecting only ancient ruins and timeless rituals, as if the Andean culture exists only in the past. They are often completely unaware that these cultures are vibrant, modern, and constantly evolving. Guides and tour operators have a crucial role to play here. They can shift the narrative from one of discovery to one of connection, explaining that while the history is profound, the people and their culture are very much alive today, adapting and thriving in the 21st century.
Across Asia, entire developments are being built as European replicas, using foreign aesthetics as a sign of “world-class” living. What drives this architectural trend, and what are the long-term consequences of prioritizing imported facades over local function and cultural identity in urban design?
This trend is driven by what you could call an “aspirational aesthetic.” There’s a persistent, colonial-era belief that what is happening in Europe or the United States is inherently better or more beautiful. As a result, European aesthetics become a visual shorthand for “premium” or “progressive” living. We see it in places like Phu Quoc’s Mediterranean-style village or the English cottages of Thames Town near Shanghai. The problem is that this “imported urbanism” prioritizes appearance over livability. These projects may look great on Instagram, but they often fail as actual communities. They are built with a focus on facades, not function, and often lack the essential infrastructure like public transport or local services, becoming empty, speculative shells rather than thriving towns.
Travelers often arrive in a city like Mumbai expecting a certain “chaotic” stereotype and are surprised by its multifaceted reality. How do these preconceived notions limit a tourist’s engagement, and what practical steps can someone take to move beyond clichés and experience a city’s authentic layers?
Those preconceived notions act like a filter, preventing travelers from seeing what’s truly there. Many visitors arrive in Mumbai with an image in their head shaped by films like Slumdog Millionaire, expecting a city that is exclusively loud, colorful, and chaotic. They fixate on one part of its identity, like the Dharavi slum, and are then genuinely shocked to discover the city’s incredible diversity—its grand colonial architecture, its sophisticated fine-dining scene, its bustling markets and high-rises. To move beyond this, a traveler needs to be intentional. Put down the checklist of clichés. Instead, take a walking tour with a local guide, spend an afternoon in a neighborhood with no famous landmarks, and simply observe the city’s many layers without trying to fit them into a pre-written story.
Do you have any advice for our readers?
My advice is to become more conscious of the language you use and the stories you consume before you even pack your bags. Question those easy nicknames and grand, sweeping statements about a country or a continent. When you arrive, make an effort to listen more than you speak. Seek out local voices—guides, artists, shopkeepers—and let their narratives, not outdated guidebooks, shape your understanding. True travel isn’t about confirming what you think you already know; it’s about being open to discovering how much you didn’t.
