Editor’s note, November 2025: This one is from the archives. I first met farmer Keith Wedderburn, founder of Bluefields Organic Farm, in 2017 while updating the western, southern, and eastern sections of Jamaica for Rough Guides. After Hurricane Melissa devastated the farm and surrounding communities this past week, Keith and his team are now trying to rebuild everything: the crops, the education programs, and supporting their neighbors. I’m resharing this story to remind readers how incredibly valuable this place is, among many that were hit hard. If you’re moved to help Keith and his community rebuild, please find the verified donation link at the end of this story.

“Watch it! Stop, stop, stop!”

Keith Wedderburn, owner of Bluefields Organic Fruit Farm, rushes toward me. I’m standing beside a small, prickly bush I’d failed to notice at the start of our hike.

“Did I step on something? I stepped on a plant!”

“No, no, no—it’s more than that. It’s a scratchy bush,” he says. “I should’ve warned you about that one.”

An immediate burning sensation spreads across my ankles, right above the sock line. Keith tells me it’s harmless, medicinal even, but it scratches. The tingle continues, bearable, and I move on—sensing there’s much to discover with this farmer-teacher I’ve just met.

“You can tell I’m not on farms that often,” I joke.

It’s the first of many lessons on my two-hour tour of Keith’s farm in the hills of Bluefields, a small coastal fishing community just an hour southeast of Negril. The tour is really an education: Jamaican fruits, medicinal plants, the benefits of organic farming—all born from a family’s passion and vision.

When I first contacted Keith while researching sustainable, locally-run places for my guidebook work, he immediately agreed to show me around. He even offered to pick me up.

We meet on a Saturday morning at a parking lot in Savannah-La-Mar. I arrive on Jamaican time—thanks to my ride from Negril—but Keith is already there, patiently waiting behind the wheel of a 20-plus-seater white bus. He uses it to shuttle children to and from school every day.

As soon as I board, Keith suggests we start with history, discussing the areas we pass as he drives south and east toward his birthplace: Bluefields. The short distance reminds me how close this place is to a major tourist town, yet it feels utterly remote, deeply country. After checking out the well-known Bluefields Beach nearby, we drive uphill and arrive at the farm in less than 15 minutes.

Sitting across his parents’ home and adjacent to his own family house, Keith’s farmland awaits us along a tranquil paved road. His father waves from a distance, quickly disappearing into his home as if running from the harsh sun.

A Haven of Fruits, Vegetables, and Herbs

Keith opens a traditional wooden farm gate, smiling proudly as if introducing me to one of his children. We enter a lush property dotted with trees beneath clear blue skies.

“Farming for me has been a passion. I grew up in it,” Keith says. “My wife and I acquired this property about ten years ago.”

It had been an abandoned field, for sale for many years. Keith and his wife Sandra lived next door, eyeing it while wondering if it was within reach financially. After growing up around subsistence farming, Keith knew he wanted to farm differently—sustainably, profitably, while educating the public about healthy living. They decided to take the plunge, investigated the land, purchased it at a good price, and converted it into an organic farm.

“Why organic?” Keith asks before I do. “We noticed that food had become detrimental to people’s health because of processing. We wanted to create something healthy for ourselves and for the environment.”

In 2016, just two years after starting the farm, Keith won third place at the annual Denbigh Agricultural Show in Clarendon.

Hiking his land now—visibly filled with plant species—it’s hard to picture a place that was wild and unused for 20 years. A good thing, Keith explains, because it meant anything previously applied to the soil had time to become extinct. The Wedderburns took on the demanding task of converting the land without machinery, without pesticides or chemicals.

Although Keith humbly calls his farm “a work in progress,” it’s a stunning environment of the healthiest tropical trees you’ve ever seen, smelled, or tasted. Meticulously plotted, it brims with colorful produce—better-looking fruits than I’ve seen anywhere at markets or supermarkets. My eyebrows rise with every footstep, and every bite. That’s right—we start to pluck and taste while hiking. A walking fruit tour.

The grass rustles beneath our feet. It’s 96 degrees in the shade.

“We have over 36 different fruits and vegetables, all in different stages of development.”

We walk past a citrus tree planted in 2014. I recognize guava and allspice leaves but can’t identify the garden cherries.

“Every time I come to the farm, it’s a learning experience for me,” Keith says. “I’m serious, you know!” he adds, noticing my awe at his expertise.

Next: bananas. There are seven varieties here.

“Traditionally, banana takes nine months to bear.”

“Like women, right?”

Keith laughs. “Yes. But it bears only once.”

If there’s a hot sun sending sweat drops down my back, I don’t notice. I’m continuously sucking on one fruit or another, observing a new tree, lost in the echo of goats ringing out across the fishing village.

As if reading my thoughts, Keith mentions his sheep. “We have 13 sheep—they’re the full-time employees. They graze and keep the place clean.”

We hike deeper into the second phase of the farm, past a plant nursery. I discover loquats—a plum-looking fruit not normally grown in Jamaica. Then: sweetsop, sweet and flavorful; pomegranate; lemongrass.

“What do you know about lemongrass?” Keith is testing me.

“It helps break fever. You drink it like tea,” I say, remembering medicinal walks in Belize and other Caribbean islands.

“Good. What else?” I have no idea.

“It’s also a natural mosquito repellent.” Keith rubs a few leaves in his hands, extracting the oil in the safest way possible to avoid cuts from the blade-shaped leaves. He applies it to his arms.

When I tell him I had no idea lemongrass worked as a repellent, he quips, “That’s why you’re here.”

Besides that, the goats don’t like the smell. When they catch a whiff, they head the other way, keeping them out of the farm and away from the family’s hard work.

We move on, but not before I notice cactus, cassava used to make bammy bread, and sugar cane. Keith chops, scrapes, and hands me a juicy piece.

I taste ortanique, a cross between an orange and a tangerine.

“The ortanique is a common cold remedy. Add a little honey to it, and it’s gone!”

Then there’s the sour orange—bitter orange—the one tourists tend to like while Jamaicans shy away from it.

The variety and health of these plants are astounding. Fruits grown the traditional way, left to ripen to the rhythms of Mother Nature. Back to the roots, as my farmer guide says.

“You have to have variety—diversity,” Keith explains. “At the same time, these attract different pests. That’s the problem with agriculture today: where there’s only one type of crop in large quantity, the pest that loves it is free to multiply. But if you have a variety of plants, no one pest will dominate. Some are predators, some are prey.”

It strikes me as a metaphor for life. Diversity for the win—even in farming.

“You want to eat it now?” It’s a question I don’t mind being asked more than once. June plum, rose apple, sweetsop, sugar cane sticks that Keith chops on site—I bite, crunch, drink, forget about not putting my sticky fingers on the camera. If it’s in season, it’s part of the tasting tour.

But also: Keitt mangoes, St. Julian mangoes, East Indian mangoes, along with thyme, Simone pears, coffee, and cacao trees.

By now, I’m reluctant to reach the end of this educational afternoon.

“Coconuts!” The ultimate Caribbean treat.

“Coconuts take about four to five years to bear, producing up to 75 coconuts a year,” Keith shares. “The pumpkin, on the other hand, takes 12 months to grow. It’s nice to make soup with it. This one’s about ten pounds.”

It’s the best-looking pumpkin I’ve ever seen. I lift it to feel its weight in gold.

“You see? You can’t go hungry at the farm!” Keith laughs as I barely manage a chuckle through a mouthful of fruit. “This one has your name on it,” he adds.

I turn around to see Keith pointing at one of many star fruits hanging from its tree—gorgeous, shiny, yellow.

“You have to have an eye for the farm to see things. You didn’t see that, right?” He laughs, amused by my lack of farming prowess.

We’re at the end of the two-and-a-third acres. Or so I think.

“For the more active visitors, there’s a third part.” He points to a grassy hill. “And there’s a prize at the top.”

The Future: A Farm Stay

I sign up for the uphill hike without hesitation. When we reach the summit, there’s a house with a show-stopping panoramic view over Bluefields’ coastline and its iridescent turquoise sea. What a reward—almost as good as those juicy fruits—hidden from street view.

Staring at the sea, cooling off at the foot of a tree with my collection of fruits and vegetables, I wonder why I’d never heard of Keith’s organic farm experience before. But it makes sense: it took four years for the family to plant these fruits, herbs, and vegetables and let them naturally bear in amounts sufficient for visitors to discover and taste while hiking the farm.

Today, Bluefields Organic Fruit Farm gains more attention as schools, visitors, health and wellness experts make their way here to learn about organic farming, healthy eating, and Jamaica’s potential for agrotourism.

By the end of my tour, I’ve long forgotten about that prickly bush or the burning tickle on my ankle. As for the house at the top of the hill? It’s a nearly finished guesthouse: Keith and Sandra’s vision for a complete farm stay in the lush hills of Bluefields. Cozy bedrooms with balcony sea views, a constant breeze, fragrant fruit fields below, and the Wedderburn family home next door for home-cooked, local meals.

And fruits, of course.

A sweet, sweet Jamaican experience.

Update, November 2025: Bluefields Organic Farm has suffered devastating losses from Hurricane Melissa. Over 90% of their crops are gone. Livestock and fencing destroyed. Solar panels—essential for powering the community—severely damaged. The images of the farm and surrounding areas is heartbreaking.

In the days after the storm, their compound became a literal lifeline for neighbors: Keith and Sandra offer Wi-Fi through their Starlink connection, let families charge phones, work with neighbors to provide food. Their spirit undefeated. But Keith and his farm urgently need support to replace solar panels, restore power, and keep serving as a hub for food security, education, and healing. Please read their fundraising appeal and consider donating here.

You can also follow Keith’s transparent updates from the aftermath on his personal Facebook page.

What started out as a tropical storm turned into a Category 4 system within 24 hours, then a Cat 5. It aimed for Jamaica and was ruthless: Roofs vanished, trees snapped like matchsticks, and storm surges swallowed coastal towns. Rivers burst their banks. Entire neighborhoods disappeared under water.

It’s impossible to get a full damage assessment at this early stage, but already more than 20,000 people are displaced and in shelters—they have lost their homes, all their belongings, as well as their businesses and farms. Entire communities are cut off as roads collapsed, left with no food, no water, no shelter—and fuel is limited.

Some have begun to receive help through World Central Kitchen and other established nonprofit organizations, as well as aid delivered via helicopter from assisting nations, including the US, Venezuela, El Salvador and the Dominican Republic.

Several parishes won’t have electricity until at least late November, if that, and Starlink has helped a handful quickly connect with loved ones. But by and large, there is no communication. All this while Jamaica’s capital, Kingston, was thankfully largely spared.

But as we wipe our tears, pray for Jamaica and donate to relief efforts, let’s also be clear about what created this storm.

The ocean that fed Hurricane Melissa was unnaturally hot—close to 31 degrees Celsius, about two degrees higher than the long-term Caribbean average. Heat like that is rocket fuel for hurricanes. The physics are simple: warm water evaporates faster, air holds more moisture, and the hurricane grows heavier and angrier with every mile.

That heat is no surprise. For half a century, oil and gas companies have known exactly what burning their products does to the atmosphere. Their own scientists charted the rise in global temperature, warned of the greenhouse effect, and even predicted the two-degree increase we’re now brushing against. They published the research, buried the memos, and kept going.

Governments kept subsidizing them. New oil fields were approved in the Atlantic and Africa even after the International Energy Agency said we couldn’t open a single new one if we wanted a livable planet. The Caribbean, which emits less than one percent of global carbon emissions, pays the most for those decisions—through lives lost, lives upended, and countries destroyed. The most vulnerable people who also happen to be people of color.

Jamaica will rebuild again, sure. It always does. But rebuilding while the engines of the crisis keep running is like bailing water while someone widens the hole in the boat.

My Jamaica Connection

Jamaica is where I started my career in travel journalism. As a new writer, I drove around the island—weeklong and monthlong road trips—reporting from local guesthouses and small communities. It’s always been the people who made the difference.

That’s why watching the aftermath hits different. Seeing St. Elizabeth Parish (Treasure Beach, a community-based tourism hub), Black River, St. James Parish, and parts of Westmoreland—including my former home base, Negril, plus Whitehouse and Bluefields—get destroyed hurt deeply. I’ve cried watching it all from a distance, feel helpless. I know folks there. I’ve walked those streets, eaten at those tables, made friends. (Ironically I also had a major feature story coming out this week on a major news platform; of course we’ve hit pause on it, and if I get paid in the meantime I’ll be donating my fee.)

I’ve also lived through two Category 5 hurricanes before—Maria and Irma—while living in the Dominican Republic. By the grace of God we were largely spared. I’ve spent 15 years reporting on sustainable tourism in the Caribbean. Even so, the destruction in Jamaica this week, and the ripple effects of flooding and destruction in Haiti and the DR from a single storm, are staggering. But I shouldn’t be shocked, and neither should you. We should be very, very angry.

Not Just Another Storm

Black River, Jamaica—the storm’s “ground zero”—saw up to 90% of structures damaged. St. Elizabeth Parish is Jamaica’s breadbasket. Small farms that feed communities, not tourists. Those farms are underwater. The public hospital lost its roof and had to evacuate 75 patients in the middle of the hurricane. Residents have lost their lives, many of them just sitting beside the wreckage that was once their family home as they wait for aid.

In Haiti, 23 people died. Ten were children. One father, Steven Guadard, told reporters: “I had four children at home: a 1-month-old baby, a 7-year-old, an 8-year-old and another who was about to turn 4.” Gone in one moment when the river burst.

Cuba evacuated more than 735,000 people. Communities remain without electricity, internet, or phone service. Banana, cassava, and coffee plantations destroyed.

When these storms hit, it’s not only infrastructure that’s lost. People lose cultural heritage sites, traditional ecological knowledge, oral histories. In historic Accompong Town in Jamaica, where I once joined Maroon Day celebrations—90% of homes are gone. The museum is decimated. The sacred landscape stripped bare.

How Jamaica Had to Bet Against Itself

Jamaica will receive a record-breaking $24 billion JMD (about US $150 million) payout following Hurricane Melissa, from a catastrophe bond structured by Aon and arranged by the World Bank. It’s the first in the Caribbean region and the first island in the world to independently sponsor this type of bond. The funds are expected to be disbursed within 14 days.

It’s being celebrated as a success story. But think about what it actually means: Jamaica had to bet on its own destruction to get protection from a crisis it didn’t cause.

The Caribbean emits less than 1% of global carbon but is among the most climate-vulnerable places on Earth. Yet it pays premiums to insurance markets for disasters created by wealthy industrialized nations.

And that $73 million payout? Hurricane Beryl caused nearly $1 billion in damage to Jamaica in 2024, just a year ago. Beryl missed the payout criteria, so Jamaica got nothing. So even when the insurance “works,” it’s inadequate.

This is what passes for “resilience” in 2025—private markets profit while fossil fuel companies face zero accountability. It’s important for us to understand this.

Whose Recovery?

Six weeks. That’s how long Jamaica’s Minister of Tourism says the tourism industry will take to reopen. The intentional deadline: December 15. Recovery cannot be left to chance, he said.

They’ve activated a Hurricane Melissa Recovery Task Force led by both government and private sector executives—the same team that handled pandemic recovery. The priorities: “rapid assessments, product rehabilitation, and service readiness across resorts, attractions, airports, and cruise ports.”

Notice the language: “Product rehabilitation.” Not community rehabilitation. Because while 72% of Jamaica is without power at this time, while people remain in shelters and rescue crews are still removing wreckage and looking for bodies, the national priority must also juggle tourism reopening.

Tourism accounts for roughly 30% of Jamaica’s GDP. The country literally cannot afford slow recovery. But what happens to the hundreds of tourism workers who’ve lost their homes in places like Savannah-La-Mar? They’ll rebuild the same fragile structures—zinc roofs and plywood walls for now—because there’s no alternative and rebuilding hurricane-resistant structures takes money and time, especially in a nation still bearing the economic weight of colonial extraction.

Next month the slogan will likely appear: Jamaica is open. That’s economic necessity. But the mega projects that were taking place pre-storm will continue, led by private developers: the kind that’s destroying mangroves (natural storm barriers) and offshore coral reefs, making future disasters even more harmful to communities.

Examples of Local Resilience

Even amid the wreckage, some communities are proving that local leadership and innovation make a difference.

In Accompong Town, a Maroon community in the heart of Jamaica’s Cockpit Country, Ambassador Anu Tafari Zion shared that their two Atmospheric Water Generators (AWG)—the only hurricane-proof system of its kind in the Caribbean—survived Hurricane Melissa intact.

Accompong’s units are powered by a solar system that was safely stored in reinforced containers before the storm—no fossil fuels, no grid dependency. The two containers of over 25K pounds each were actually lifted and shifted by Melissa but a last-minute added fence protected them from going over the hill, which would have crushed homes below.

For context: AWGs extract moisture directly from the air and convert it into clean drinking water—an off-grid solution that can be powered by solar energy and sustain communities when conventional systems collapse.

Now, the team plans to deliver clean drinking water to more than 10,000 people across Cockpit Country who were directly impacted, and to extend help to other parishes facing shortages. It’s an incredible example of Indigenous, community-minded preparedness.

Down on the south coast, Keith Wedderburn of Bluefields Organic Farm—which I toured pre-pandemic while it was still new, so I could include it in Rough Guide to Jamaica back in 2018—shared another glimpse of what resilience looks like on the ground.

“Before Hurricane Melissa made landfall, we took no chances—securing fuel, chainsaws, and key supplies in preparation for what we knew could be a long road ahead.
Now, in the wake of the storm’s devastation, those preparations are proving vital. With roads blocked, homes destroyed, and power still out in many areas, Bluefields Organic Farm has once again become a hub of action and hope.
Our team is using what we have—fuel, tools, and sheer determination—to help clear paths, support neighbours, and begin the process of rebuilding together.
We’re not waiting on help… we’re helping ourselves and others until more assistance arrives.”

These are the stories we should be amplifying.

Bluefields Organic Farm practices regenerative agriculture—restoring ecosystems and growing food with nature. This is real resilience: community knowledge, local systems, food sovereignty, and economic models that prioritize wellbeing over extraction. It already exists. It just needs support.

What Must be Said Out Loud

As Jamaican-British climate activist Mikaela Loach said this week, we must stop calling these recurring, megastorm events “natural disasters.” They’re not natural. They’re the direct outcome of a superheated planet. Melissa went from 70 mph to 140 mph in 24 hours because Caribbean ocean temperatures are hotter than average—driven by global heating and decades of political and corporate negligence.

And the corporations responsible face zero consequences while Jamaica, Haiti, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic bury their dead and rebuild with inadequate resources.

If we work in tourism, media, policy, finance—anything that touches the Caribbean—we have a responsibility to tell these stories honestly. To name the systems that cause these disasters. To stop celebrating band-aid solutions. To center Caribbean voices and support community-driven resilience.

Travel journalists must cover more than resort reopenings. Travel stories need to incorporate more than leisure.

So I’ve been urging everyone to make time to listen to the everyday Jamaicans who’ve been harmed and are currently sharing their stories—the farmers, the fishers, the teachers, the Maroon elders. Their voices document what a fossil-fuel-fueled climate disaster really looks like on the ground.

Their stories should make you sad, then outraged—a healthy emotion that will keep us holding accountable those who’ve driven this climate crisis.

Sources to Follow

Here are recommended local accounts that are documenting the human face of this disaster.

• TVJnews
• CVM News
• Jamaica Information Service
• Treasure Beach
• Photographer Adrian McDonald
• Chief Richard Currie, Accompong Town

And if you’re planning to visit Jamaica in the coming months when it reopens to tourism—GO. But go consciously. Choose locally-owned stays. Hire local guides. Understand what recovery really looks like for those who live there. When the government declares Jamaica is open, understand it’s economic necessity speaking, not full recovery. Bring supplies in an extra suitcase (check with your airline and NGOs on the ground), be patient, and spend time in communities where possible, without hindering ongoing local aid.

Ways to Help

1. Support trusted organizations already on the ground, including those I trust and have visited in Accompong Town, Bluefields. This list will be periodically updated.

• Food for the Poor Jamaica
• World Central Kitchen in Jamaica 
• Global Empowerment Mission 
• Accompong Town & Cockpit Country 
• A Google Doc compiling Fundraising Efforts for Treasure Beach
• Bluefields Organic Farm

2. Keep attention on recovery.

The headlines may fade, but we must keep sharing updates. Support small Jamaican businesses and local initiatives, and it’s better to purchase local supplies in Jamaica if you are able to do so.

3. Push for systemic change.

If you have connections in policy, finance, or tourism, use them. Push for climate finance, debt relief, and tourism models that build resilience instead of vulnerability.

4. Educate yourself.

Learn the science, the politics, and the human impact of the climate crisis. It’s all connected.

5. Subscribe to Tourism Lens Media

I cover stories mainstream travel media often won’t. Share this post or my YouTube channel where I also host a monthly podcast called “Places, People & Power.”

If you’re an NGO in the Caribbean and want to collaborate with me as an independent on-the-ground storyteller, please reach out.

The “land of wood and wata” will recover, but it shouldn’t have to keep rising from disasters it didn’t create. If you’re in affected areas and want to share your experience or have a lead for a story, my inbox is open.

One Love.

I was a corporate attorney who loved luxury hotels just as much as I loved immersing myself in history and culture, but my friends and I were focused on living our best lives. Shopping, partying, dining and putting ourselves first. We loved meeting locals and making new friends, but the priority was to indulge, and nothing more. After all, that was what travel marketers told us: travel is about you—your comfort, your escape. Do you!

That’s actually how I kicked off my keynote speech at Impact Conference in Victoria earlier this year, sharing the story of my 15-year journey from a privileged, US passport holder with disposable income to a travel reporter passionate about sustainable tourism.

The core of my message? The travel industry has strayed from its human side—and we are all implicated in acknowledging that and changing course.

Beyond Resort Walls

My perspective began shifting when I stepped foot in the Caribbean in 2006. A burned-out lawyer, I took a solo vacation to St. Lucia lest I lose three weeks of accumulated PTO. It was my first time visiting the region and my first truly solo vacation as an adult.

I chose an upscale all-inclusive resort, which was all that seemed available when I researched accommodations online. Maybe it’s what you did when visiting the Caribbean, I thought. While there, I stepped outside those walls — into a weekly fish fry, then a solo day hop over to neighboring Fort de France, Martinique. Meeting Martinicans, enjoying fresh fish at a local restaurant that tasted like a home cooked meal and swaying to echoes of zouk music threw me back to the vivid, communal life I knew growing up in Côte d’Ivoire. I quickly realized that the resort walls weren’t just about security; they were an intentional economic and social barrier.

The essence of St. Lucia, Martinique and other Caribbean destinations was clearly not behind resort gates—even if travel websites wanted us to believe it. It was in the neighborhoods, the local businesses that thrive when you shop there, the cultural events and the people. And I was going to find more of that on my trips.

That decision took me to Jamaica, where I stayed at a Jamaican family owned hotel. The small, fully local staff quickly took me in and showed me their favorite places to relax, to catch live reggae festivals, swim in their favorite rivers, or get a late night soup roadside.

It’s a shift that eventually led me to live, write, and report across the Caribbean and Central America for years before the phrase “digital nomad” became mainstream. And when you live long enough in tourism-dependent destinations, you witness and grasp the power of this industry—to build or destroy.

The Human Side

I met women like Marva in Hopkins Village, Belize, who taught me how to make hudut and shared what it means to keep Garifuna traditions alive as development and US migration increasingly threatened local businesses.

I met David, a 20-something mountain guide in the Dominican Republic, whose small eco-adventure company became the top entry on Google for climbing Pico Duarte with a guide—the tallest peak in the Caribbean—after I featured him in my Moon Dominican Republic guidebook. It brought him so much business he had to hire an English-speaking virtual assistant to help him with bookings, as he wasn’t fluent and didn’t know how to use all those digital tools.

I share this not to boast, but to show that there are many like David who are in tourism and show promise, but lack resources to fully integrate in the industry because they are not their government’s priority. Many more I’ve met lack the resources or training.

I saw successful community-run enterprises, too, from Belize to the Dominican Republic, with members who share profits equally and also pump allocated funds back into building a local clinic or funding their children’s education.

Tourism, I realized over time, isn’t neutral. It can open doors, and economic opportunity for those who live in the countries we enjoy—but only if we are willing to consider more than our own indulgence and only if the right policies are in place to make the sector more inclusive.

The Luxury Race

And yet, somewhere along the way, we’ve lost that human side of travel. Greenwashing, increased exclusivity with a multiplication of resorts and extractive marketing on steroids eclipse the lived experiences of the very communities that make travel worth taking in the first place.

Travel is still focused on selling you lush dwellings to “escape reality” while culture and land are more neatly packaged and curated than ever, especially from the luxury-focused companies—but at what cost? Environmental destruction, exclusion of communities from natural resources and even a way of life—just so we can indulge on vacation, then fly away from it all never to return. All of this, amid a climate crisis to which we already contribute.

The more I read press releases about the latest upscale hotel opening or offering, the less it feels like connection and more like a sanitized version of place. Resort brands creating enclaves loudly claim they are “giving back,” and employing people, yet we continue to see reports of big leakage.

And high end hotel chains are mushrooming across the Global South, walling off of beaches and the creation of economic enclaves that leak the tourism revenue while marginalizing the very communities that give destinations their character.

But as long as the privileged traveler gets to indulge and arrivals reach their peak, there is no concern voiced from any major group or member of the travel industry.

“Consider Us” as Equals

On the flip side, Indigenous tourism offers so much opportunity for the industry to step up, yet its organizations put double the effort for governments, big media and private sector to see them as a baseline of what the right kind of travel exchange should be about.

I remember what Johani Mamid of Mabu Buru Tours in Broome, Australia, shared with me for a story on Aboriginal tourism in Australia – a specific line that ended up on the cutting floor post-edit:

“We’re not saying to give us handouts. We’re saying actually consider us–consider that we can play a fair game in this space as well, as long as we get treated as a fair player.”

I recall, too, pitching a story in the past about an island being systematically bought up by billionaires, soon displacing generations of residents and destroying one of the world’s most important birding sites in North America. The outlet’s response? Something along the lines of “that’s not really a new thing.” That reply echoes in my mind because it perfectly encapsulates how normalized extraction has become in our industry.

The essence of travel is increasingly being morphed to suit western palates and sold as exclusivity rather than connection (although you’ll be promised the latter). But travel, at its core, is about meeting other people, learning from them, and seeing ourselves reflected in their struggles and their joys. Serendipitous travel, full of memories and authenticity, is messy—not dangerous, but filled with the real elements of heritage and culture, unpackaged and there to experience when we’re welcomed into a space.

Somewhere along the way, that human side has been eroded, buried under profit margins, and social media gloss to which many have contributed. What do you do when you witness an influencer prancing around in a pretty dress in a places of Black memory (true story), for the ‘Gram, and the tourism board executive holds the camera? I suppose all that matters is the post’s impressions?

Livingstone Zambia: From Victoria Falls to seeking and finding Sishemo, a women-run upcycled glass jewelry studio.

And now we’re seeing the backlash unfold. From Barcelona to the Canary Islands and Lisbon, locals are marching in the streets against overtourism, housing shortages, and neighborhoods hollowed out by short-term rentals.

At the same time, a rising tide of anti-immigrant sentiment—from the US to Europe—fuels resentment toward outsiders. Pair that with failing infrastructure in tourism-dependent nations—say, extended rolling blackouts in the Dominican Republic or in Madagascar as of late—where tourism paradoxically grows, and it’s no surprise that frustration is boiling over. Imagine being displaced, disconnected, or left in the dark (often literally) while visitors cool off nearby in air-conditioning and hot showers… that’s when tourism’s extractive path becomes impossible to ignore.

Economic, Social Realities

I’m not naive about economic realities—many destinations now have few alternatives to tourism. The global pandemic put that on display for all to live, see and feel. But does economic necessity justify the status quo of marketing already-strained destinations to death while ignoring the effect on residents? Does it justify continuing to treat locals as second-class citizens over tourists, and how long does the industry believe this will work before it all implodes?

And when local housing dwindles or its costs skyrocket due to digital nomad influx, why is it celebrated as ‘economic opportunity’ without addressing displacement? Or when there’s a story about “community-led tourism” published in a major travel outlet, why do we act like it’s a huge deal when it should be the baseline and recognized as the right kind of tourism?

Better yet, why are travelers and writers who claim to be pro-sustainability cheer on when a luxury brand builds in a protected area, encroaching on wildlife and once ancestral lands just so tourists can see gorillas pass by their front porch and brag about it?

Tourism done right looks like tour operators with B-Corp certifications walking their talk—not using their credentials as cover to push the next ‘newly opened’ destination. It’s tourism boards prioritizing destination stewardship over arrival numbers (remember that post-pandemic promise), and marketers building genuine relationships with media who understand impact rather than just chasing impressions. It means digital nomad platforms acknowledging their role in displacement rather than just profiting from lifestyle migration.

I’ve thought of exiting the industry—but not the act of travel itself—on multiple occasions as a journalist who’s been in this space for more than 15 years. I’ve aimed to infuse positive impact through my work, supporting what’s local, pushing back against extraction and checking my own privilege.

But I decided to keep going, because I’ve seen what happens when tourism is done right — when it preserves heritage, opens doors, and treats local voices as equal players.

A great example of this is the Best Tourism Villages initiative that UN Tourism runs and that I’ve looked into and written about as an exclusive the past couple of years. It inspires me to see these communities around the world who have figured out how to make tourism elevate and preserve what’s theirs while connecting with others.

On the other hand, I also know and have seen first-hand what bad tourism can do. Many of us have, yet few are vocal about it.

So for World Tourism Day, rather than simply ask how we can stop the industry’s absurd commodification of “communities,” let’s instead push harder for what we can each do to continue to amplify real people-to-people connections in tourism—not the ones packaged neatly for your entertainment—and push for better policies from our respective seats.

Let’s reject aesthetics over substance. (I can dream)

And let’s courageously push back when a brand claims sustainability yet builds a high footprint operation within a protected area.

Because “no change is too small” — as environmental scientist and activist in Venice, Jane Da Mosto, told me when we had coffee in Venice, a few months ago. This was after I shared how disillusioned I felt with the travel industry, including travel media.

She’s right: Every choice, every voice, every decision that elevates the more equitable, conscious kind of tourism is needed. Even if we’re just a small circle of people across the industry, globally, who refuse to be a part of the extraction, exploitation and displacement of our brothers and sisters around the world in the name of tourism.

So that’s what I’ll continue to do. I’ll keep using my platform to elevate what’s working, push for conscious choices, and demand economic justice in tourism.

I hope you’ll join me—because it’s never too late to put people first.

Happy World Tourism Day.

For more honest conversations and insights on tourism, head to my Tourism Lens Media channel and my newsletter.

Cover image: With the Indian Creek Maya Arts Women’s Group in Toledo, Belize, after a day of cultural activities, from a Maya cooking class to traditional crafts and a hike.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my decade abroad as a travel journalist and as a digital nomad who’s lived in several countries, it’s this: If you’re actively planning a move abroad from North America — this year or next — there are destinations you need to know about. Because more residents in these places are literally saying: don’t come.

Moving overseas isn’t just about picking the place with the best beaches or lowest taxes. It’s also about understanding the impact of your presence on the people who already live there.

Lately, more locals are protesting, staging demonstrations, and openly pushing back against tourists but also against foreign residents who they say are displacing them from their historic neighborhoods.

Let’s talk about eight cities or countries you should pause on before making a relocation decision in 2025 — and why. This list could be longer, but my aim is to get you thinking about your move before you jump on the American exodus bandwagon.

1. Mexico City, Mexico

Locals are fed up with skyrocketing rents in neighborhoods like Roma and Condesa that they say have been gentrified. Signs read “Gringo Home,” while protests have blamed short-term rentals alongside the government, as some areas have seen housing prices rise 50–70%.

Ironically, the current president of Mexico herself promoted digital nomadism — partnering with Airbnb and UNESCO in 2022 – when she was the mayor of Mexico City. But locals say the result was a short-term rental boom that has displaced residents.

Some experts say the protests were not about housing, but really a pushback against cultural erasure, as most long-term foreigners are digital nomads who have no intention of integrating or learning Spanish… eventually transforming the area into businesses that cater to them and their palates.

Takeaway: Don’t move to Mexico City and contribute to a housing and cultural displacement crisis.

2. Accra, Ghana

The Year of Return campaign which kicked off pre-pandemic was one of the most brilliant tourism and relocation pushes of the century — bringing African-Americans “back home.” But in the capital, property began being marketed in US dollars, rents skyrocketed, and average Ghanaians were priced out.

Cost of living in Accra is high, while there have been reports of some internal land disputes–not widespread but existent–perceptions of American entitlement, and economic inequality. It’s a very nuanced situation.

There are reports that the economy is improving under a new president, but you’ll want to visit and move forward with caution.

Takeaway: Visit, yes. Relocate? Understand the complexity first and how you’ll be a positive contributor.

3. Cape Town, South Africa

South Africa’s new digital nomad visa requires at least $37,000 annual income (which has been a moving target) for a stay of up to 36 months. Meanwhile, Cape Town has 25,000 short-term rentals, and local leaders are proposing new taxes on them.

Even more of note, there is local resentment among some that visitors are using their tourist visas to stay long-term rather than apply for the new digital nomad visa.

Takeaway: Beautiful, yes. But housing pressures make this a sensitive move. If you do, do it legally.

4. Lisbon, Portugal and Barcelona, Spain

Both cities have reached a breaking point. Portugal ended its Golden Visa and is reviewing its popular D7 visa as a result of this growing crisis.

Lisbon has seen protests over unaffordable rents. Barcelona residents are staging increasingly direct protests against tourists and pushing to ban short-term rentals by 2028.

Takeaway: Years of unchecked overtourism and foreign investment have broken the housing systems here. Expect resentment if you move in, but preferably don’t contribute to the problem and consider secondary cities in Portugal.

5. Tbilisi, Georgia

Since the war in Ukraine, tens of thousands of Russians relocated to Georgia, driving rents up 200%. Locals were calling it a “digital colonization” when I visited in 2023, with landlords preferring foreigners over nationals. That may have cooled off by now but it’s something you’ll want to look out for when visiting.

Takeaway: Gorgeous landscapes, a rich culture and spirituality— but check on the vibe for a few months in the capital before deciding.

6. Costa Rica

Nosara, Tamarindo, Puerto Viejo… once affordable beach towns are now facing soaring rents, foreign-dominated real estate, and rising crime. Rapid, unregulated development is also putting stress on Costa Rica’s environment and communities.

Takeaway: Eco-tourism hotspot? Yes but affordable long-term living? Perhaps not so much anymore–ask locals how things are at the moment, listen and visit multiple times before committing.

What to Keep in Mind Before Moving Abroad

These aren’t “never move” destinations. They’re mostly “not right now” places or destinations you should think about carefully— where overtourism, gentrification, and inequality are fueling local resentment.

If you’re serious about moving abroad:

• Spend months living there, over at least a two to three year period, first before deciding.
  
• Listen to locals — not just influencers.
  
• Remember that even if you don’t feel you are wealthy, your U.S. dollar or euro gives you an economic advantage that empowers you over locals in low to middle income countries.

Relocation isn’t just about what you gain. It’s about what you’re bringing with you–will it be integration in the culture and real exchange, or life in a bubble that contributes to communities losing more of what is theirs?

Are there are places you think also belong on this list, based on your experiences? Share in the comments.

Subscribe to Tourism Lens on YouTube for weekly honest conversations on conscious travel, heritage, and life abroad, and join my quarterly newsletter for subscriber-only updates.

Considering moving to Belize — which is facing similar tensions in tourist and US retiree areas — but want to do it consciously? Grab my 7-Day Belize Cultural Itinerary for an honest, on-the-ground perspective and a one-week overview trip that connects you with Belizeans.

Three years ago, I kicked off Tourism Lens to share conscious travel storytelling, discuss the travel industry openly, and build a community of like-minded travelers, professionals and writers who care about mindful travel.

Life happened, and I spent the next three years reporting for Bloomberg Pursuits It’s where I also successfully pitched and authored Bloomberg News’ first conscious tourism column, the Better Travel Bureau.

This summer, I finally stepped away from the travel reporting grind to focus fully on the work I’ve always believed in most: helping ethical brands and storytellers dedicated to conscious tourism with insights, training and content that’s culturally grounded, equitable and drives transformation.

Why Conscious Travel Matters Now

As you may already know, over the years, I’ve reported from more than 25 countries, lived in eight—navigating cross-cultural living—and worked with tourism boards, cultural organizations, and global media.

What I’ve learned is as true today as it was even 10 years ago: travel and tourism remain all about people—and our choices ripple more powerfully today through communities, with impacts lasting generations.

Since 2020, the stakes are even higher, and conscious travel awareness more urgent than ever.

Overtourism, yes, but also corporations’ choices of profit over people and planet that are continuing for the most part. Take the latest example: Accelerating land dispossession and private takeovers in the Caribbean since the pandemic. It may not be “new”—but the pace is alarming and the consequences on cultural spaces tragic.

In this Tourism Lens podcast episode, I speak with the Jamaica Beach Birthright Environmental Movement (JaBBEM) about the fight for public beach access, the history behind restrictive laws, and what’s at stake for local communities. I am also working on a separate reported story about this.

Then there are the ongoing marketing campaigns that recycle tropes but leave consumers frustrated in their quest for truth.

In an era of shifting geopolitics, mass relocation, and a wave of digital nomads and retirees crossing borders but also facing pushback in major cities, understanding how to move and travel consciously isn’t optional—it’s become essential.

And yet, there are also positive players in this space and solutions worth amplifying. And there is work here that can help you on your mission to tell more conscious narratives that spark change and bring you influence. This is also where Tourism Lens Media comes in.

What You’ll Find Here

This space is for action, solutions and truth-telling. I’ll share:

• Honest takes about the challenges shaping tourism right now — from climate change to cultural erasure.
• Behind-the-scenes insights from my travels and reporting.
• Input on traveling or relocating ethically, and creating conscious travel content— in ways that create connection and spark change.

How We Can Work Together

In addition to articles and resources, I now work with destinations, conscious brand leaders, and cultural initiatives to tell stories that matter and stand out for the right reasons. My work blends journalism-level depth with industry and sustainability expertise.

Here’s a quick look at how we can collaborate:

• The Conscious Travel Storyteller Webinar – Now available: A comprehensive, interactive six-hour program this Fall for creators, journalists and small ethical brand entrepreneurs who want to learn to tell or elevate conscious tourism stories that resonate and drive change. 10 spots only, at an incredible beta price from now until September 1 only!
• Cultural Strategy & Narrative Development – Move beyond surface-level marketing and build stories rooted in authenticity.
• CEO Media Lab – 1:1 high-touch guidance for ethical brand CEOs and executives ready to lead with integrity and measurable impact (By application only).
• Multimedia Storytelling – including branded content, short-form documentary and editorial features that resonate and last.

Whether you’re a novice travel storyteller, small entrepreneur or a tourism board and ethical brand focused on sustainability, turning purposeful tourism into action becomes seamless.

Start Here

• Explore my culturally-grounded itineraries and conscious move guides in the Shop.
• Sign up for my free quarterly newsletter for insights from conscious tourism creatives and leaders.
• Work with me directly – From cultural strategy to multimedia storytelling, see how I help serious creatives, destinations and brands bring integrity and impact to their work.

Welcome or welcome back — let’s keep pushing for purpose and culture and stand for truth.