Once upon a time, travellers didn’t give their impact on destinations a second thought. But as perceptions change, for one generation of travellers in particular, there is an obvious, awkward tension – between hope for a better future and gentrification and overtourism in the name of experience-seeking.
In 2025, I sat on a sofa in Lake Atitlán, Guatemala, listening to a conversation between two backpackers over the ethics of using a porter when climbing a volcano.
Neither of them knew the answer. Neither of them had asked their porter what he thought.
I was already struggling with Lake Atitlán. El lago, ringed by three volcanoes and a mirror into Mayan life, seemed to be reflecting back nothing more than foreign-owned bakeries and middle-class Europeans in hiking gear.
The worst part was – I was one of them.
As a member of Gen Z interested in exploring, you don’t have to scroll very far on social media to find an Anthony Bourdain quote, a travel montage encouraging youthful adventure or a guilt-tinged video on not ‘wasting your 20s’ and exploring the ‘real’ world. On the shores of Southeast Asia, Australia and Latin America, young travellers follow popularised routes in search of this authenticity, belonging and perhaps a planet worth fighting for.
After all, clips of data centres springing up in national parks, melting glaciers and declining animal populations are also just a scroll away. For many, climate anxiety fuels a selfish and understandable desire to see the world before it burns. Travelling almost feels like escapism to the ‘good old days’ of phone-free travel and unspoilt nature we missed and may never have back. And, when everyone is going anyway, foregoing personal experience for principles is an obvious point of friction.
Ethics Long Before Arrivals
I’d be lying if I said that hearing ‘ethical travel’ used to conjure anything more than animal welfare and not photographing children — I hadn’t thought much further than that. Adventure travel has never been more accessible. Curated itineraries, ‘must-sees!’ and not-so-hidden gems are algorithmically available, and these well-trodden paths perhaps invite more overtourism than wanderlust. When places become checklists, the nature of discovery, of forging your own experience and relationship with a location, is overlooked.
One of the strangest things I learnt whilst backpacking is that there is a lot I’m not interested in and things I don’t want to see. When I found myself on a rocky scramble to a volcanic cascada on Nicaragua’s Ometepe Island, four miles in and six mosquito bites down, I suddenly thought – ‘This isn’t fun. I don’t want to do this anymore!’.
I wondered whether that made me a vapid traveller until I realised I still wanted to see the waterfall, but I was quite happy observing it from the island’s beachy shores. It was a beautiful place, and the best thing I could do for it, and myself, was leave it alone.
When everyone in your age group is hyping up an experience and claiming something shouldn’t be skipped, it’s easy to become footfall in an already overwhelmed hotspot. The fear of missing something before it’s gone can slowly make you part of the reason it vanishes.
The answer to this comes perhaps with a bit of soul-searching. Asking yourself:
- Do I really want to do/see this, or is everyone else just telling me I should?
- Do I fear judgement for not doing something that seems popular?
- And (the most self-confronting and honest Gen Z take) – if I couldn’t take a picture or post about it – would I go?
It has become normal to see the whole world online, but it isn’t normal to see the whole world in person. It is okay to not want to traverse every border, to only find certain travel experiences interesting, or not to absorb everyone else’s bucket lists.
Boats off a Nicaraguan beach, left
Ethics All Muddled Up
I doubt many backpackers Google ‘unethical things to do in Thailand’ before they go. Most travellers are driven by a passion for nature, an interest in culture and a want to understand the world better. Good intentions, sometimes badly informed.
When I travelled through Belize, I came across my own dilemma. Snorkelling tours on the tropical island of Caye Caulker can sometimes involve the feeding of local sharks and rays, and up-close-and-personal swimming with these wild, and often unpredictable, animals.
My travel companion and I debated the excursion. I was convinced that it was ethically dodgy on an animal front, and he believed giving money to local livelihoods was more important. We were also going with a group of new friends whose values we weren’t aware of, and in a very human way — we hesitated about lecturing them or explaining our concerns in front of (or to) an eager tour guide. We stared out at inviting blue waters, feeling guilty for thinking of going, and even guiltier for not knowing.
Many travellers feel conflict between the caveats of ethical choices, of not wanting to stigmatise a community and a practice, fearing reducing complex issues to the simple ‘locals rely on tourism’, and in the same breath, not wishing to exist in a patronising abstract of removed and righteous decisions.
The answer to this is, of course, education. Yet, that solution feels so vague. From whom? From where? I would argue the first step is looking locals in the eye. These conversations can and should include tour operators and wider communities, and while any enterprising business owner might try to test your principles, assuming those in the Global South (and beyond) are unaware of or uninterested in ethical discussions is more harmful than someone losing a customer.
It is also perhaps a matter of both self-education and forcing transparency from broader tourism industries. If the impact of your decisions was clear, if you knew exactly where your money was going, the welfare of animals after tourists have gone home, or how an operator treats local employees – choices would feel more easily empowered. That onus is not always on the traveller, but pressure from consumers can drive change.
For travellers – of all generations the world over – that can only happen if a culture of mindful interrogation and careful research becomes ingrained, rather than an optional way to move through the world.
