My dream has always been to swim with orcas. Strange and self-serving dream, possibly, but what can I say? I really, really, really love orcas.

A few years ago, I found out that there was a way to make my dream come true. For a small price of 4000 Euros, in the darkness of the polar night far out in the icy cold waters of the Arctic Circle in Norway, I could one day put a drysuit on and get in the sub-zero water with the sea pandas.

While waiting to be in a position where I actually have 4k to spare on this frivolous endeavor, I started seeing videos of orcas and people in just their bathing suits in the blue ass water of sunny Baja California, Mexico. There might be my chance to secure a surely cheaper and indefinitely more comfortable swimming experience with my spirit animal, I thought.

Then the Mexican government announced full legalization and regulation of orca swimming, which sounded amazing to me at first. But the more I read about this topic, the more I started realizing that while for tourists and tour operators in the area this is great, it may not be the best news for the orcas.

Legalization an regulation mean a green light for more tourism development. More tourism means more people, more boats, more crowding, more potential for an accident to happen on either side. Before we know it, the orcas may be facing the same fate as the whale sharks, about which I already wrote at length.

My last straw was this NY Times article that looked at both Norway and Mexico with a bit more scrutiny, highlighting the shortcomings of both operations.

It hit me just then that precisely because I love orcas so much, the best I can do for them is probably to move to Spain, buy a boat and hope for a visit from Gladis, iykyk leave them alone.

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I should have seen this coming, considering I’ve already written two articles about animal tourism. Both started with the same question: how can we see or interact with animals ethically? Both ended with me wondering whether there are any truly “ethical” options at all.

I had been approaching animal tourism as a consumer problem: “which experience is ethical enough to buy?” I’m starting to think that’s the wrong question.

I’ve visited an elephant sanctuary and swam with a whale shark, and although I researched both extensively and followed what was considered best practice at the time, I don’t feel too good about either experience in hindsight. What I, however, can’t justify is researching something, recognizing that it’s problematic as a whole, and doing it anyway, hiding behind searching for the most ethical option.

So, for once, I’m putting my money where my mouth is: giving up on my dream of swimming with orcas and reconsidering what I actually believe in when it comes to animals and tourism.

missing the point

There is always discourse online about the ethics of whale shark swimming, with a lot of focus on the Komodo sailing tour these days. The multi-day highlight trip is popular on social media and often touted as one of the best experiences of people’s Southeast Asia travels.

In many such tour itineraries, you can find a “whale shark point” stop in Saleh Bay off of Sumbawa, with language describing the experience as “if you are lucky, you can maybe get to swim with whale sharks”. In reality, it is well documented that the sharks in the bay are being fed, absolutely swarmed, and sometimes apparently even trapped in nets for tourist pleasure.

This understandably crosses the line for many travelers, and I sometimes come across videos of people on the tour looking horrified and refusing to participate. And while I applaud people for recognizing something as wrong, I fear we are missing the point. That’s because the suggested solution is rarely “don’t do the tour”. It’s “don’t do the tour on this specific day or with this specific company”. It’s “take an alternative route”. It’s “do the tour but don’t swim with the sharks”.

That’s not enough.

First of all, the “alternative route” is just the same tour operator making their way back. You get the whale shark experience Lombok to Flores and the “ethical” experience going Flores to Lombok. I see suggesting alternatives or refusing to get in the water as misguided. All of these actions will still result in financially supporting the root of the problem. And promoting a less egregious destination doesn’t solve much in the long term either, besides the traveler getting to feel better about themselves for the time being.

The moment a new location emerges as a more ethical hotspot is the exact moment when the profit-fueled race to the bottom starts. Industry develops, sites get crowded, conservation gets thrown out the window, and animals get reduced to a selfie backdrop hooked on frozen shrimp.

- me, a year ago

But on top of everything else, people tend to forget that whale sharks are not the only animals being exploited on this tour. The prehistoric inhabitants of Komodo National Park, its resident Komodo dragons, are suffering under the pressure of tourism as well, with nobody finding an issue with that because “they are still wild animals, so it’s fine”.

Lilawrites

I was worried about the toilet situation. I should have been worried about the dragons.

I sat on this piece for 6 months while I waited for the dragons reporting to land somewhere. It finally did, in Geographical. This is the rest of what happened on that trip. More personal crisis, less serious conservation discussion…

Read more

4 months ago · 21 likes · 8 comments · Lilarwrites

However, as Lila describes in her article about this topic (highly recommend), although the dragons in touristic areas of the island show signs of apathy and altered behavior due to their constant proximity to humans, even this problem isn’t black and white. Managing tourism volume opens the door to income loss for the many local tour operators and, subsequently, the black market emerging, making things worse.

An impossible balancing act of wildlife conservation and human prosperity. What’s good for the locals is often bad for the animals and vice versa. So how do we choose who deserves our concern?

is safari the answer

The Komodo dragons are the perfect example of another half-truth I have definitely subscribed to and even promoted myself: the idea that wild encounters are always best.

On paper, the dragons are wild. In practice, the sheer volume of tourists means they are inevitably adapting. This process, called habituation, happens when animals are exposed to the same stimulus repeatedly until they stop responding to it—in this case, losing the healthy fear of humans they should otherwise have.

And Komodo is hardly the only place where this is becoming a concern. I keep seeing habituation mentioned in discussions about safari, as videos of wildebeest migrations flood the internet every year and other corners of the world start questioning what increasing tourism means for wildlife.

I’ve been to Kruger National Park, and it is easy to see why it gets held up as the gold standard of animal-conscious tourism: you are observing animals in their natural habitat rather than feeding, touching or confining them. If that’s our definition of ethical, then safari sounds like the answer.

But safari is also rooted in a deeply colonial model of experiencing wilderness. I didn’t think much about this on my own trip until I realized that our guide was expected not only to drive us around and find animals, but also to build our tents and cook three meals a day. Of course, we ended up peeling potatoes, cutting fruit and firing up the braai together, but the expectation itself was revealing: “real safari” isn’t just about seeing animals in the wild. It is about being able to experience wilderness without sacrificing your own comfort.

And the further you move upmarket, the more obvious this becomes. Kruger is almost considered a “poor man’s game” because you can self-drive and stay at public campsites, despite also having hotels where one night costs roughly the same as my monthly salary. The real money is in luxury camps with private chefs and airstrips, because apparently even the wilderness needs to be made convenient. Elephants can hang out by your infinity pool, but god forbid you have to rub shoulders with the masses on the way there. It’s just you, the vast savannah, lions, zebras—and a couple of African guys with rifles to protect you and serve you. I don’t remember seeing that part in The Lion King.

Of course, there are good arguments for safari. Wildlife tourism has helped replace hunting with conservation, and making access to nature less exclusive is, in principle, a good thing. But making safari more accessible also means opening the door for overtourism. More vehicles, more traffic, more environmental pressure and more opportunities for wildlife to become habituated to us.

The idea of safari as the highest form of animal tourism is built on colonialism, exclusion, inequality, and ultimately, it’s just hunting rebranded. It certainly stops being unproblematic once everyone joins in, but again, was it ever truly?

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is there a good way to do it?

I don’t know, and this uncertainty is certainly uncomfortable.

I know I won’t be sailing around Komodo islands, and I know I probably won’t be swimming with orcas. There are many other things I won’t be doing and, if I see fit, I will write and speak up against them.

But I also know that there are some changes I am unwilling to make. I won’t stop scuba diving, for example, despite diving also having its own share of issues. I also won’t go back to being vegetarian for the foreseeable future. There are probably still some conservation-driven animal experiences that are worth supporting, but I no longer believe in trying to categorize them as “ethical” or “unethical”. These experiences exist on a spectrum of impact that is much messier than the binary “ethical/unethical” label suggests, and trying to find the “most ethical” option is just diverting the attention from the real question we should all be asking:

Why do we feel so entitled to animals in the first place?

What I do know is that to start fixing this mess, we probably need to shift away from seeing animals as attractions altogether, instead of arguing about what is the most humane way to exploit them. We should appreciate natural spaces as a whole and treat seeing animals as a nice, unexpected bonus, not a demand or a sole purpose of a trip.

As for me, it’s easier said than done. I will probably need to do some more soul-searching. I love animals, and I still want to see pygmy elephants in Borneo, dive with whales in Dominica and gallop amongst capybaras in Llanos. But I also recognize that partaking in animal-centered tourist activities, promoting them online, and especially promoting them as “ethical” is a dangerous game the animals will always lose.

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I have a confession to make:

I visited Palomino with one sole purpose—to eventually write about it.

After spending a few intense days exploring the Guajira desert from a base in the anything-but-touristty city of Riohacha, we filled the last few days of our vacation by making our way to Palomino, a supposedly laid-back hippie surf town nestled against the Sierra Nevada mountain range, roughly midway between Santa Marta and Riohacha.

While we heard a lot about the place beforehand and knew that Palomino probably wouldn’t be exactly our vibe, we decided to check it out anyway, just to make sure. To justify the trip, I vowed to treat our short stay less like a vacation and more as an investigative mission with a pool.

Three days and one food poisoning later, here are my findings and thoughts.

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the town

When David and I arrived in Palomino, we immediately felt like we’d just gone through a portal to a completely different world. All of a sudden, we weren’t the odd ones out speaking English to each other; we blended perfectly with the rest of the crowd. At the hostel check-in, staff weren’t quite sure what to do about David’s Colombian passport.

The Carrera 6ta, which is the main “tourist strip” and ironically the only paved road in town, looked like it could be literally anywhere in the world, or at least any place that attracts a specific type of person. Pick your pick—Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, Costa Rica, Morocco, Mexico. I don’t even have to name the town or village, yet you probably already know exactly which spots I have in mind.

It’s a particular type of process happening to these beach towns. It’s gentrification, yes, but a very insidious flavor of it. It’s people flocking to a place deemed “good vibes”, “spiritual”, or “high energy”, and then completely doing away with whatever made the place feel that way originally, replacing it with generic smoothie bowl cafés and ecstatic dance sessions.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again—if the only local who ever comes to your yoga shala is the cleaner, maybe it’s time to reevaluate your set of beliefs.

The ever-present Bali-inspired aesthetic with its bamboo walls, palm leaf roofs, muted natural colors and minimal decorations feels almost comical contrasted with the bold Caribbean tropical maximalism. I read somewhere that being Latino is the antithesis of being a minimalist (when it comes to design), so some of the new architectural choices stuck out like a sore thumb.

Food-wise, Palomino is often praised for its many options and yes, there’s something for everyone. Argentine empanadas (which gave me my first ever food poisoning, sorry!), French bakery, Asian fusion, specialty coffee, veggie burgers. But finding a regular, affordable, and more importantly, local spot to eat along the 6ta was a tricky task. While local eateries aren’t completely gone just yet, they are far less visible, and you’re going to have an easier time finding a vegan organic gluten-free buddha bowl than a mojarra frita.

the beach

On our second day in town, we went to examine the state of the beach, if you can even call it that these days. The 6th will lead you through a narrow path to where the famous beach used to be. Nowadays, you’re going to walk from the road almost directly into the water. Water you’re advised against swimming in thanks to the strong currents in the area.

Palomino has been battling coastal erosion for years, way before it became the tourism hub it is now. The problem has always been known, escalating rapidly over the last 10 years or so, but that stopped exactly no one. The last major event took place in February 2026, just a few weeks before our brief visit, when the cold front and floods associated with it took around 60 meters of beach and destroyed beachfront properties along the coastline.

Why is that? We spoke to a local, who offered his insight and theories. According to him, the current problem is the culmination of many small decisions made over time without seeing the big picture. Mangroves that used to line the coast and serve as a natural barrier have been cleared to make space for development. The rivers that feed the beach are delivering about half the sand they used to due to upstream deforestation and extraction. Offshore gas operations in La Guajira have disrupted the marine ecosystem, forcing fishermen to find different jobs. Port construction up the coast changed how sediment moves. On top of all that, the climate itself is becoming more extreme and unpredictable, and the loosely controlled, rapidly growing construction without proper planning and zoning is causing its own set of issues.

A thousand paper cuts that got the village into its current predicament.

Among the backpackers visiting Palomino, this side of it is hardly ever a topic of discussion, typically overshadowed by more pressing issues like “which is the best hostel to stay in,” “where’s the party tonight,” or “where to buy weed”.

Right on the eroded beach, the former Selina, now “Beach Life Hostel”, known among backpackers for its crazy beachfront parties, has shut down indefinitely. On their Instagram page, they display an ominous message: “Palomino beach is not safe.”

Parties in other hostels further away from the sea continue uninterrupted.

The beach is barely there anymore, yet the tourists don’t seem to mind; they keep coming for the idea of a Caribbean holiday regardless. One can then only assume that the actual appeal of Palomino is not really the beaches or surfing, and it’s most definitely not the culture. The current selling point is being surrounded by young foreigners interested in new age spirituality and drugs, dancing on what’s left of the place. That, and river tubing, I guess.

And so more land is being sold and developed, more businesses are opening. More visitors are coming because nobody tells them the truth, and even if they learn it, they don’t seem to care. The show must go on. The village keeps speedrunning its own inevitable collapse.

the contradiction

While Palomino is mostly safe for tourists who don’t seek out trouble, the guides available online rarely mention how heated the entire Sierra Nevada region actually is these days. Some sources claim that up to 95% of tourism-oriented businesses between Santa Marta and Palomino are subject to paramilitary extortion, meaning that your tourist pesos may, in some way, be feeding into the region’s broader ecosystem of criminal activity and drug trafficking.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I couldn’t shake the feeling that the “Balification” of Palomino was just a little bit forced, giving off the impression of “we actually don’t have Bali at home, but we’ll try our best to create one anyway”. Its spiritual, carefree facade doesn’t feel fully genuine, even though its evolution was probably organic in origin, given that Palomino’s tourism boom was driven almost entirely by hippies.

Nowadays, with its strange roster of fancy hostels with pools and no kitchens, international food joints, yoga and pilates classes, and stalls selling nondescript clothing imported from Asia, Palomino is the only place I’ve seen in Colombia that lets you comfortably forget which country you’re in.

Which begs the question: how do locals and Colombians feel about the way Palomino is evolving? Some time ago, I came across this video, which reveals a lot. Many people in the comments talk about having conflicted feelings, liking the aesthetics and the variety while also feeling alienated from their own country.

And luckily enough, I happened to have a Colombian right there with me who decided to write his feelings about the subject down.

Let’s hear it from David, my husband.

I left Colombia for Prague eight years ago, not because I had to, but because I could. Every year since then, I come back and explore bits of the country—a privilege I mostly gained through moving abroad in the first place.

Mapping out Palomino on foot, I almost forgot I was in my home country, since almost nothing there looked familiar. And I kept asking myself why. Basic arbitrage perhaps? People earning their money where it pays the most, and then spending it where it buys the most? Could it be the same forces that led me to leave Colombia, now acting in the opposite direction?

The whole thing reminded me of the invasive Lionfish.

Psychedelic-looking, venomous, and native to the Indo-Pacific rather than the Caribbean, Lionfish now also swim right off the coast of Palomino, where they do what they do best: prey on local fish with almost no natural predators of their own. They got there not through evil or ill intent, but because aquarium owners in Florida released them into the ocean when they outgrew their tanks. The Lionfish found a perfect habitat and spread like wildfire.

Just like the Lionfish in the sea, you can also find a lot of non-native things landside. Let this Google review paint a picture of what I mean:

“Such a beautiful place in Palomino — truly a little piece of heaven. A gorgeous yoga space offering daily classes, and after practice you can enjoy a delicious meal at their cute café/restaurant. We tried the tom kha soup and the tacos, and the food was exceptional.”

What’s happening to Palomino is truly sobering and... perplexing. People are literally partying and vacationing on an ongoing ecological disaster. It’s like throwing a party at your place, but the building is on fire, and somehow it’s normal and people keep shouting que no pare la fiesta!

As I struggle to find a singular party to blame, I wonder if maybe there is no one obvious villain. Is the Lionfish evil for eating? Or the yoga teacher for setting up shop where it is advantageous for her? I think not, so is no one responsible here? Somebody still released the Lionfish. Somebody cut the mangroves. Somebody made it viable for unregulated business to thrive here. None of these factors alone caused the damage, but the sum of all did.

I try my best to find culprits, but it all keeps coming back to me, with a Colombian passport in one hand and a flat white in the other.

I can’t help it but draw parallels between myself and Palomino, in a way that my cultural identity has also been eroded. I often forget Spanish words or expressions. I go back to my motherland and locals ask me where I’m from, assuming I’m a foreigner. And as much as I would like to blame “the system“ for it, I made all the choices that led me here.

I feel confused and conflicted even writing these words. But I see two sides of the same coin. I am both the reef and Lionfish killing it. I am both Colombia and the force changing it. I’m from this place, I share the cultural roots, but my actions resemble those of the Lionfish.

The difference is that the Lionfish will never know the consequences of its actions. I don’t have that excuse.

the future

While Palomino doesn’t really feel like Colombia, it is also not not Colombia — just a strange simulacrum of it, perhaps tethered too strongly to the darker reality of conflict, gentrification, and environmental decay beneath the surface.

So at the end of the day, I worry for Palomino regardless of what course it ends up taking. If the tourists keep coming and the surrounding industry keeps growing, the place will eventually become an environmentally unsafe parody of its former self.

But if the tourism well eventually dries up, then what? The alternative may be even worse. The local people can’t simply go back to the small-scale farming and fishing that once sustained the area; that ship has long sailed. Squeezed into a shrinking piece of land between the advancing sea on one side and the mountain on the other, the options are scarce, and many people will likely turn to the regionally booming illegal business for survival.

And so the show must go on. Palomino is a tragic case of what happens when a place becomes desirable, forced to keep going until there’s no reef left—just a bunch of lionfish.

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More Colombia vignettes:

If you’re interested in Colombia, please also consider donating to the earthquake relief:

• Cruz Roja

• Fundacion Plan

• Help affected indigenous communities in Chocó

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work. Give the post a like ❤️ , share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or buy me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

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The goal here is, as always, to learn about less-known yet fascinating places around the world and plan out realistic ways to visit them.

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My trip to Tofo was born out of a sudden opportunity rather than a previous obsession. One day, I went swimming with a friend who, between laps, told me about his upcoming trip to South Africa and Mozambique. Jokingly, I said that I wanted to come as well, to which he replied that they had a spare room in Tofo, so if I really wanted to join, I could. Hope he wasn’t just trying to be nice because I’m the kind of person who will say yes to random plans like this one in a heartbeat.

A couple of months later, all this happened →

Up until that point, I had very little knowledge about the country. I knew that they speak Portuguese and that whale sharks live there; that was about it. Travel to Sub-Saharan Africa, especially somewhere other than Zanzibar, had always seemed unattainable for some reason that only ever existed in my head, and I am glad that this trip opened my eyes and mind to the possibility.

Getting to Mozambique might have created one of my most intense travel stories, but staying there was something else entirely. Two weeks in Tofo flew by in absolute bliss, and the sleepy beach village quickly became one of my favorite places I’ve ever visited.

And because Mozambique feels like one of those increasingly rare destinations where thoughtful tourism can genuinely make a positive difference, I’m more than happy to share the excitement with you.

what & where

Tofo Beach, or Praia do Tofo, or oftentimes just shortened to Tofo, is a small fishing-turned-tourist village in the Inhambane province in central Mozambique, which is a coastal country in southeastern Africa. Along with Vilankulos and the Bazaruto islands, Tofo is probably the most popular Mozambican spot to visit for leisure, making it perhaps not so niche if you’re already planning a trip to Mozambique.

But that’s the thing. Thanks to the difficult logistics and the almost non-existent marketing, few people go through the hassle of visiting Mozambique to begin with. And in my opinion, those people are missing out bigtime.

Tofo is quite remote, but it isn’t an “undiscovered hidden gem” by any means. It has dive centres, surf schools, restaurants, cafés, and somewhat functioning tourism infrastructure. Despite all that, it still feels somewhat rustic, like it has every predisposition to turn into another Canggu copy but for some reason keeps resisting, which is probably why I found my stay there so enjoyable.

why visit

diving & marine life

Diving in Tofo, we saw sharks, mantas, huge potato groupers, eels, and plenty of other fauna. The reefs seemed quite untouched and healthy, and my biggest problems were the somewhat poor visibility, currents, and my very personal beef with negative entry. A friend of mine got her PADI certifications in Tofo, and while it probably prepares you for anything, beware that it’s not the easiest place to learn.

If you’re an experienced diver, however, it is the perfect spot to get some dives in and expand your skills.

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For those who don’t dive, there are also ocean safaris in Tofo, on which people can see dolphins, mantas, and, if they’re lucky, whale sharks. In the winter, you can also see migrating humpback whales along the coast. All of these sightings are 100% chance-based, making them a more ethical option compared to whale shark tours in some other countries.

We dove with Liquid Dive Adventures and I was very impressed by their professionalism, can only recommend!

surf

Tofo is a great place to surf for all skill levels. The main beach is perfect for learning, while the neighboring wild Tofinho is where the experienced surfers come to play.

We rented boards and took classes from the boys at Wutsita and had an amazing time with them.

eat seafood

The official e-Visa website (which has improved a lot since the last time I saw it btw!) tells you to eat delicious prawns when in Mozambique, and who am I to defy the government? Mozambican food is fish and seafood-heavy, which is always an immediate yes for me. There’s also an abundance of fresh fruit (I don’t even know how many passionfruits I ate daily), and several pretty good restaurant options for the foodies.

Banca Cadir for a hearty local lunch. Rio’s bakery for sourdough bread and the most addictive cinnamon rolls. Branko’s for tuna grill dinner.

slow beach life

We stayed put for two weeks in Tofo working remotely the whole time since the timezone is actually the same as Prague. And let me tell you, the life is slow-slow. Days started and finished early during the Southern Hemisphere winter, and consisted mostly of swimming, surfing, eating, diving, drinking 2M beers and doing random sidequests (such as going to Inhambane to take out cash and buy bus tickets, which took a whole damn day).

It was not the most eventful time, but definitely the kind of beach life that makes you forget about everything else going on in the world—just the way I like it.

how to get there & around

You see, that’s the problem.

Getting to Tofo is no easy task—take it from my story from hell. But chances are you will first need to travel to the capital, Maputo, either by plane or by bus from South Africa, as we did. That part is easy (as long as your visa comes through).

From Maputo onwards, however, it gets a bit trickier. Here are pretty much all the options you have:

1. chapa

Chapas are privately owned vans and minibuses serving as inofficial public transport in all of Mozambique.

I don’t recommend. Refer to my road to Mozambique story to get this idea out of your head. You’re welcome.

If you, however, miss your bus or run into any problems on your way, you might have to use one anyway. Always double-check where each chapa is going, don’t pay in advance, learn how to pronounce your destination correctly, and hope for the best. Good luck!

2. Etrago

Maputo → Inhambane / Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday 4:00

Inhambane → Maputo / Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday 5:00

We used the Etrago bus on the way back from Tofo, and it is the cheapest, most reliable option. The downside is that it goes to Inhambane, meaning you still need to arrange private transport or catch a chapa between Inhambane and Tofo.

I’m also not sure whether the website accepts foreign cards these days, since in 2024 we had to go to the ticket office in person.

3. Cheetah Express

Tofo → Maputo / Tuesday, Friday 5:30

Maputo → Tofo / Monday, Thursday 6:30

This option is significantly more expensive but goes directly to Tofo. It also continues from Maputo to Nelspruit (Mbombela) in South Africa, and even offers an overnight package, making it a good backpacker choice.

Again, I don’t know if the online booking accepts foreign cards.

4. LAM flight

Inhambane has an airport, and according to Skyscanner, there are flights between Maputo and Inhambane every day—sometimes direct and sometimes with a transfer in Vilankulos.

This is by far the most expensive option, and not necessarily the most reliable one, as flights can often be cancelled on short notice. The joke is that LAM stands for “late and maybe”, which tells you everything you need.

5. Fatima’s shuttle

If you search online, you will see this option mentioned among backpackers. Fatima’s Place is the oldest backpacker hostel in Maputo, and they used to have a sister hostel, Fatima’s Nest, in Tofo. Fatima’s would arrange a “shuttle” between the two, but by many accounts, the shuttle was just a chapa.

However, Fatima’s Nest in Tofo seems to have permanently shut down as of 2026, and the one in Maputo doesn’t seem to be very active either. I am unsure whether it is still possible to arrange the shuttle, but either way, it was far from the best option in the current day.

Once in Tofo, you can walk everywhere as the village is quite compact. To get to Inhambane or other spots around the area such as the more upscale Barra beach, you can arrange a taxi, but a chapa works perfectly fine too.

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what else to know

• Besides what you can find at the market (typically fruits, vegetables, fish, and seafood) and alcohol, grocery options are very limited in Tofo. The best way to get cooking ingredients is actually to get them delivered via YumYum.

• There is no ATM in Tofo itself, and to get cash (which you will absolutely need), you have to go to the intersection between Tofo and Inhambane or Inhambane proper.

• Nothing seems to have a fixed price for some reason. People will make you haggle over a coconut on the beach. It can get a bit exhausting, so be prepared.

• You will sadly see loads of wealth inequality in Tofo. The place was basically built up by wealthy South Africans constructing their vacation homes here, and many of the businesses I shout out above are foreign-owned, too. I would urge you to support local whenever you can, be it the market, the fishermen, the few locally owned restaurants, the different tours and activities you can do, and perhaps even a charity like Mozambikes.

• Coming in the winter (June) was actually the right call. Days were hot and sunny with very little rain, while the nights allowed things to cool down; no AC needed.

• Tofo is generally safe, and I have met some women traveling there solo. Personally though, I probably wouldn’t do it.

In case you missed the last niche bucketlist edition, check it out ⬇️

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work. Give the post a like ❤️ , share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or buy me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

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Unpacked monthly is a space to get a bit more personal, something I rarely do in my writing otherwise. I’ll also share destination highlights with my recommendations, and include reading, listening, and watching tips & anything else I found interesting any given month.

This is a new series, and its format will likely change as we go. But I will be sending this newsletter to my paying subscribers at the end of every month, that much I can promise 🌸

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In this month’s newsletter, you will find (among other things):

• Field notes from my niche bucketlist trip to Białowieża forest 🦬

• Bad Bunny Warsaw concert review & thoughts

• Playlist with my favorite Bad Bunny songs that aren’t totally overplayed

• Must-do checklist for your Poland visit 🇵🇱

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For several centuries, one of the defining rites of passage for wealthy young men was the Grand Tour—months or even years spent traveling through Europe to learn independence and become “cultured”. Today, the tables seem to have turned. Solo traveling in Europe and elsewhere is slowly becoming more of a women’s thing.

Earlier this year, almost every travel website and page ran headlines about women apparently making up to 80% of all solo travelers in 2026. Considering that travel, and especially solo travel, has historically been a very male-dominated field, such figures may seem shocking—and at least to me, they were.

When I took my first solo trip in 2016, solo female travel was definitely not unheard of on the internet (where else could I have gotten the idea?), but it was still quite rare in my circle. Although study programs or exchanges like Erasmus were thriving among my peers, I was probably the first woman to go solo backpacking out of everyone I knew at the time, and my decision brought about many concerns, questions, and raised eyebrows.

Fast forward 10 years, and the girls are very visibly outside. Solo trips are being pushed by influencers as the ultimate form of self-care, and the whole idea of solo travel, at least online, has been wrapped in pink ribbons and painted over with lipstick and blush. The message is clear: traveling solo in 2026 is for the girlies.

But why? It’s not like the world has suddenly become a safer or less hostile place for women. As it appears though, fear is no longer holding us back.

And where are the men in all this? Is there something holding them back from exploring the world on their own these days?

Here are some of my (totally subjective and uneducated) theories based on a bit of research, a few anecdotal experiences, and vibes. While I don’t want to fall into the gender binary “women are naturally this way, and men are that way” imperative, we will be dealing with some generalizations and trends here, so consider yourselves warned and please don’t send me “not all men” comments. Also, I know that people outside of the man/woman boxes exist, but they were never included in the statistics we are going to talk about, so I have no idea what they are up to when it comes to solo travel.

define solo travel

I think it’s worth examining what “solo travel” actually means in the modern context first.

Solo travel can—and usually does—mean backpacking: exploring a country or a region, staying in hostels and local guesthouses, joining activities and tours, and doing it all on your own. More often than not, solo backpackers connect with other (solo or not) travelers while abroad, and they sometimes end up doing activities together or even decide to continue traveling together for some time if itineraries allow.

But solo travel can also mean booking a weekend away in a nice hotel, treating yourself to a fancy dinner, and spending time truly in your own company. Sometimes it means joining a group trip, tour, or retreat where you don’t know anyone beforehand. Solo travel can also involve being a digital nomad or working remotely from abroad, as long as you’re doing it by yourself.

The defining factor of solo travel isn’t really solitude but rather agency and independence. Not waiting for someone to join you, not relying on anyone financially or emotionally, not managing other people, and not having to consider anyone else’s needs besides your own as you move through the world.

is it really over 80% female?

No.

Upon taking a closer look, the stats are cherrypicked and repeated throughout industry outlets without ever examining the sources. For example, Intrepid Travel states that around 15% of solo travelers are men, but they source this back to a Canva picture simply stating that “At Road Scholar, an organization providing educational travel programs primarily geared toward older adults, 85% of solo travelers are women”.

Hostelworld’s “2025 State of Solo Travel Report” is the only source I could find that actually includes methodology. It cites a more reasonable 60/40 split in favor of women, even though in the tl;dr section, the % for women is suddenly just 53% (though it is a bit unclear from the phrasing whether that is supposed to mean all women or Millennial and Gen Z women only).

But even if the initial headlines were blown out of proportion, there does seem to be a slight female slant in solo travel nowadays, based on both the numbers that we do have and also anecdotal experience of many travelers.

So—why is that?

because we can

For much of history, women were locked out of solo travel due to the lack of economic power and societal approval. How are you going to travel anywhere on your own when you don’t even have your own money or bank account?

Going back to my definition of solo travel, it is then easy to see why women would be interested in agency and independence. We are conditioned to always consider everyone else’s needs before ours. We are constantly told that we need a man to protect us, or a group to shield us. We are being fed cautionary tales and conditioned to fear the unknown. Traveling solo is then a radical act of rebellion and empowerment for many women, symbolizing seizing the opportunity and taking one’s life into one's own hands.

A domestic partner can murder us as easily as a stranger abroad, so we might as well go see the world.

it has never been easier

In 2026, it’s actually quite easy to be self-reliant.

We have maps in our phones, so we don’t have to ask for directions. We have blogs, social media, and AI to find information about almost every destination, so we don’t have to ask around for advice. We have hostels with organized social activities, so we don’t need to go out of our way to talk to strangers. We have ridesharing and food delivery and translators and so many other things at our fingertips that help lower the barriers to being in a foreign place by ourselves.

This is convenience, of course, but it’s also security. As much as we may argue that being in our own world and not interacting with people around us is “not doing travel the right way”, sometimes it’s survival. Knowing we have the option to figure it all out on our phones instead of constantly evaluating who to trust is comforting and definitely makes solo travel feel less daunting.

At the same time, solo female travelers tend to travel to places deemed safe and “easy” to visit (by other women) and rely on women’s online networks, finding comfort and higher levels of trust in people they can actually relate to as opposed to locals.

girly marketing

Solo travel is a thriving niche on social media apps, and it’s absolutely dominated by women encouraging other women to do it, creating a self-reinforcing loop that contributes to the steady uptake.

“Solo female travel” is then a genre of its own, with content focused heavily on safety tips, women’s empowerment, and aspirational lifestyle. Female-only travel communities like Girls Love Travel are over 1 million strong, but there’s notably no equally large “boys” equivalent. We have all-female trips, retreats, and support groups, but no such things for men, and if there are, they are often scams organized around some questionable redpill ideology.

The Bourdain-esque male explorer archetype was once considered the default, but that dogma has ironically resulted in very few channels promoting travel to men specifically. Except, of course, the infamous passport bro movement, and a few travel communities for queer men, who are ironically often also more than welcome in women’s spaces.

On top of that, solo travel is oftentimes wrapped in spiritual, personal growth or “healing” rhetoric, and the wellness industry is famously overwhelmingly female. Women are much more likely to embark on an epic journey to rediscover themselves after a breakup or a big life change, especially in the post Eat, Pray, Love world.

Men—not necessarily. Their stereotype is to focus on work and hit the gym, or go on a weekend bender trip with their mates rather than self-exploration or reinvention.

It may even be precisely because this type of solo-travel-to-find-yourself narrative is so dominated by women nowadays that toxic masculinity might consider it inherently feminine and rule it out as an option.

Society also looks differently at solitude—while women doing things by themselves are celebrated as brave and independent, men doing the same might be seen (or fear to be seen) as weird, creeps, or losers. Take eating alone at a restaurant—famously the most intimidating part of solo travel. We have taken this scary thing and turned it into a “solo date” aesthetic online. Perhaps men are not as efficient in deluding themselves into collectively reframing obstacles and turning them into something aspirational.

so what are the dudes up to?

Men are obviously still out there exploring the world. I’ve seen them, I know them, they exist. They are with mates, partners, or families, and many are solo as well—remember, the actual stats don’t show such a huge disparity. In fact, many areas of travel are still arguably a man’s domain.

While backpacking and organized tours now seem to be girl-coded, men continue to dominate things like outdoor, adventure, travel challenges (think “visiting every country” or “riding a bike around all of Australia”—I’ve met a dude attempting to do that), or extreme sports like mountaineering or scuba diving or surfing.

But while all of the above can and often do fall into the category of solo travel, we wouldn’t necessarily label the men partaking in these activities as “solo travelers”, but rather as hikers, surfers, or divers. The act itself stays the same, but the language around it changes depending on who’s telling the story.

At the same time, finances play a big role in travel, and the messages each gender receives about money are vastly different from each other. Women are encouraged to treat themselves and invest in themselves, while men are more pressured to save, invest, and become rich, which may deter them from traveling alone, seeing it as a waste of money.

tl;dr

Maybe it is that women are braver these days, or that men are boring and lazy, or that women are naturally better at planning and executing trips. But after everything we went through, I came to believe that the answer is probably less exciting than expected: women solo travel more because more women are traveling solo.

Solo female travel is frequently described as a “growing market”, especially by outlets running sensational headlines. Travel is being promoted specifically to women by influencers, brands, and media as a way to ultimate self-discovery, and it is therefore no wonder that the ladies are more open to the idea the longer this campaign goes on, as they see more women around them doing it. Combined with how much easier and more accessible it is nowadays compared to 15, 20 years ago, it is simply the perfect era for the solo female travel renaissance.

Men, on the other hand, aren’t experiencing the same cultural push for solo travel right now. Many of them may then prefer to travel in groups or with their partners, or travel less in general. If they do go solo, they might label what they’re doing differently, and don’t need to rely as much on the same networks women do, which leaves them out of the statistics (for example, solo camping as opposed to staying in a hostel).

Regardless of the actual split by gender or the reason for it, only one thing remains pretty certain: interest in solo travel is on the rise across the board. And as a longtime avid solo traveler myself, I ultimately see that as a good thing—no matter what your motives are or what you identify as.

If you enjoyed this article, there’s plenty more where this came from →

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As a solo female hiker in her early 30s, planning the trail was a bit of a headache, so I decided to create the most up-to-date comprehensive guide to the Fishermen’s trail, which is exactly what you’re about to read.

Here’s everything you need to know about hiking the Fishermen’s Trail in 2026 and onwards.

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what is fishermen’s trail (and what it isn’t)

If you’re interested in walking the Fishermen’s Trail, you have probably heard some terms and labels thrown around.

Rota Vicentina (RV) is the network of marked trails along the Vicentine Coast in Alentejo and Algarve. It is then divided into the Fishermen’s Trail (mostly coastal with blue and green markings), Historical Way (mostly inland with red and white markings), and individual circular routes (red and yellow markings).

All of these trails sometimes collide, and the stages of the two long-distance hikes often end in the same village, so hikers can mix and match the trails as they see fit if they don’t want to strictly follow the officially recommended routes.

Out of all of these options, the Fishermen’s Trail is undoubtedly the most popular way to hike the RV, and therefore the most crowded one.

TIP: The official website is a good place to start planning, as it provides all necessary information about stages, markings, possible modifications, and even refreshments along the way. It also shows real-time updates and changes on the trail.

RV is a long-distance hiking trail, not a Camino or a pilgrimage. Not all trails in Spain/Portugal are pilgrimages, and not all pilgrimages are the Camino de Santiago, but that’s a rant for another day.

The trail not being affiliated with religion or spirituality is what initially attracted me, but looking back, maybe I was looking for a more purposeful walk, as a sense of community, togetherness, and shared meaning was something notably missing from the whole hiking experience.

planning the hike

The Fishermen’s Trail officially starts in São Torpes, ends in Lagos, and walking its entirety in stages recommended by the official website takes around 13 days. There are, however, a million ways to modify the hike—sometimes out of convenience, sometimes out of necessity.

13 days are almost 2 weeks of PTO, so it’s no wonder that most hikers try to take shortcuts. Many opt to skip the allegedly boring walk from S. Torpes and start in Porto Covo.

I also met a lot of people doing a 4-day hike from Porto Covo to Odeceixe, which is apparently the original Fishermen’s Trail before it got extended further south. That being said, a lot of people consider the southern part (Lagos to Vila do Bispo) the most beautiful part of the entire trail, albeit the most difficult.

I hiked for eight full days, and my schedule was as follows:

I chose this for time constraints and also because I’ve already been to Lagos multiple times and have hiked around that area. After realizing I’d have to skip a day if I wanted to make it to Sagres, it was recommended to me to omit the Odeceixe-Aljezur part for being mostly inland and allegedly the least interesting.

At the end of the day, I’d say that whichever way you decide to hike the trail, it won’t have that much effect on your overall enjoyment.

TIP: This Facebook group is a lifesaver when it comes to all things Fishermen’s Trail. You can find and advertise accommodation and get the most up-to-date advice from other hikers on the trail.

maps & logistics

The entire RV network is very well marked, not just in terms of where the trail continues, but also where it doesn’t. Expect to see a colorful X sign whenever you take a wrong turn.

Technically, one should be able to do it completely without a map. If you’re, like me, obsessed with constantly checking how much longer until your destination, I strongly recommend downloading Mapy.com. This Czech offline map app is completely useless for daily life, but for hikes & trails, it is THE best out there.

The trail is also marked both ways, so it can be walked in either direction. I walked north to south, but many people prefer the other way to avoid facing the sun. Personally, I experienced zero issues with the sun in my face and chose my direction based on flight prices, since the most economical way was flying into Lisbon and out of Faro.

As for terrain difficulty, some call it an “easy” trail because it’s not really too technical, it doesn’t have huge ascents/descents, and if you follow the official path, you only walk around 20km per day. Still, I wouldn’t call it easy per se. Many people struggle with the sand, while some get vertigo from being so close to the cliff edge. However, if you’re moderately healthy, you should absolutely be able to walk it.

If you have the time, I recommend planning rest days and stops in some of the villages along the trail to take a break and get a better understanding of the region and its culture.

hiking season

Another point of confusion I see a lot is when to walk the Fishermen’s Trail.

When hiking in April, I heard many people say “it’s so crowded and it’s not even the season yet”, but that’s false. The main hiking season is in April and May, providing the best chances of pleasant weather and also blooming wildflowers along the coast. The downside of this time window is that it felt crowded.

Summers are typically way too hot, and it is not recommended to walk the trail at all in July and August. At the time of writing this article (July), the official website also shows a wildfire warning.

The winter months can be wet and unpredictable. In early 2026, for example, the Algarve saw major floods, which rendered many parts of the trail dangerous and unwalkable. At the same time, winter is definitely the quietest and least crowded time, which can also help bring down costs, although many accommodations and restaurants in the region will be closed.

Another good hiking window opens in October/November (September is a hit or miss; it can still be very warm), when the country starts to cool down again.

The Fishermen’s Trail goes through some popular surf spots. Surfers, as well as regular holidaymakers, are all competing for accommodation with hikers. Most of the villages on the trail are very small and fill up more and more leading up to summer.

what to pack

For a first-timer, I think I managed to pack almost perfectly without needing to go shopping all that much. Here’s everything I packed.

Walking in April, the sunny days were pleasant around 20-25 degrees, but the temperatures dropped down to 12-15 at night. If you’re walking closer to summer, you will probably be fine without a fleece.

I bought new shoes, and although they are very comfy for casual hiking & I made sure to break them in beforehand, they still gave me a bit of a headache on the trail. Sadly, I can’t tell how much that was the shoes’ fault and how much was just post-injury troubles. My right foot (the one with the broken ankle) was swelling, which made the right shoe too tight and caused other issues. I also had massive nasty blisters on both feet, but honestly, that’s probably just a part of the game no matter which shoes you bring.

Most people hike in running shoes. I chose Hoka Anacapa 2 mid for a mix of cushioning & ankle support & although they weren’t perfect, my ankle felt stable and protected.

Second pair of shoes is essential. My plastic birks worked fine as a change, but if you can bring a pair that you can also walk in for some time, your feet will thank you. If you happen to own Tevas, they will be great.

If you’re planning to eat at restaurants and be in public spaces in general, I strongly recommend packing a “nice” change of clothes. Nothing fancy, just something normal and not athleisure or hiking gear-coded. I had a black midi dress and a linen shirt, and changed to this combo every day after showering.

Portuguese people take dresscodes quite seriously, so the least you can do is try to blend in a little bit.

TIP: Those who don’t want to carry all their stuff on their backs can use one of the luggage transfer services. It is a good way to support local community.

There are two “special” items everyone recommends for the Fishermen’s Trail. Here’s my take on those:

I was considering buying sand gaiters but ultimately decided against it, considering I am unlikely to use them again. If you can borrow them from someone, they’re definitely useful. During some stages, I had to stop to dump sand out of my shoes every couple of minutes and probably got some of my many blisters as a result. The sand is no joke, but at the same time, you can definitely survive without the gaiters.

Trekking poles, on the other hand, I had. Because my ankle still wasn’t back to 100% functionality after breaking it last summer, I figured every bit of extra support would make a difference. I’d say if you’re young, healthy, and fit, you can absolutely do without the poles. But if you’re older or recovering from an injury, they do help.

Bringing the poles is a pain in the ass, as they are officially not allowed in carry-on luggage. I got mine shipped from Portuguese Decathlon to my first hostel, and then left them at my last hostel in Sagres. Check the Facebook group for anyone getting rid of their poles along the trail.

accommodation

After finishing my hike, I’d say accommodation is THE most important thing to figure out, and it can really make or break the whole experience. If you want to hike during the main season, book early. Like, several months in advance, especially if you’re solo and/or on a budget.

Boring, but that’s the cost of the trail’s rising popularity.

The supply of accommodation along the trail is very limited and the cheapest options tend to disappear first. For reference, I was booking roughly 3 weeks in advance for my mid-April hike, and couldn’t find a dorm in Almograve, Zambujeira do Mar, or Carrapateira. The last is the trickiest, I’d say. Being there on Saturday didn’t help either.

Once the villages are at capacity, you are left with very few options. In some stops, you will be able to find a stay for hundreds of euros per night. In others, literally nothing.

Some people message properties to see if they can pitch tents in their backyards. Some lunatics combine two stages to skip the village where they couldn’t find a place to stay.

Some people camp on the beach or in the woods, which is illegal along the entire coast.

I decided to book twin rooms, advertise the extra beds on Facebook, and it worked. Two Czech nurses going the opposite direction did the same with the holiday home they’d booked, and that’s how I found a stay for the one night in Carrapateira when I couldn’t find anything.

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things to look out for

• No shade on the trail. Some parts are worse than others, but sun protection and water are a must. I was fine with 1.5 liters & drinking water before and after hiking every day but some people recommend more.

• Limited refreshments on the trail. Even if the official website lists a restaurant or a kiosk somewhere mid-hike, there’s no guarantee that it will be open. Take refreshments as a nice surprise rather than something to rely on.

• Some of the villages have no grocery stores, while in others, there are only understocked minimarkets. Most local shops are also closed on Sundays.

• Many accommodations along the trail have unusually late check-in times. The official check-in at HI Almograve, for example, is not until 6 PM.

• Your laundry won’t dry. Unless you manage to do your washing super early in the day and dry your clothes in direct sun (or use a dryer), nothing will dry. Don’t leave your clothes outside under any circumstances.

• Solo female hiker safety. While the area is generally safe and you will run into other hikers constantly, there have been reports of naked and/or masturbating creeps along the trail. Exercise general caution.

• You will need cash. Not all the time, but it is good to have some on you.

• I did not find the atmosphere on the trail and in hostels very friendly or social as a solo female hiker. I talk about it in my other article & recommend watching this video that shares similar sentiment about the Camino Portugues.

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cost breakdown

Excluding airfare and gear, my total for 10 days in Portugal / 8 days of solo hiking was around 615 EUR, or 61.5€ per day. That includes accommodation, food, transportation, laundry, souvenirs, etc. The spend on each category was as follows:

Accommodation: 285€

I stayed in hostel dorms whenever I could, which cost around 20€ per night, never less than 20. In some spots, I couldn’t find a dorm, so I booked a twin room and shared it with another hiker. Those nights were around 30/35€. In Carrapateira, I shared a villa with 3 other hikers and it was my most expensive night, around 40€. All of the shared accommodations were arranged through Facebook. I also used Revolut points to get a discount on a pricier room I booked.

Since I literally got the cheapest available option in every village, I don’t think there’s much room for lowering the accommodation cost even more, except maybe camping whenever possible and hiking in the winter. I do not endorse illegal wild camping in the protected area of Costa Vicentina.

Food: 135€ + some cash

I couldn’t be bothered cooking, dined at a restaurant with a glass of wine or beer pretty much every day, and overall didn’t really restrict myself food-wise. That being said, I also don’t eat that much, definitely not 3 full meals per day.

I would have coffee and pastries for breakfast whenever I could, bring some nuts and fruit on the trail with me, and then eat dinner in my next destination. Most of the time, I could find something in the range of 10-15€ + a drink. Cooking or simply not getting a drink with my meal could have made the food budget way cheaper.

Transport: 75€

Lisbon → Porto Covo (Rede Expressos bus)

Sagres → Lagos (local bus)

Lagos → Faro (train)

The rest was Ubers and Bolts, which I used to get from and to the airport, as well as during the hike. Rides are affordable, and the apps cover the entire region. I could always find a ride, but sometimes it came with a long wait.

I didn’t really “cheat” the hike too much, except for skipping the Odeceixe - Aljezur part, but some of the taxi rides were for example:

Zambujeira do Mar (end of the hike) → Carvalhal (my accommodation)

Vila do Bispo (end of the hike) → Raposeira (my accommodation)

Cabo do S. Vicente → Sagres town (to avoid a long walk along the road)

All of these can, of course, be done on foot or sometimes by bus, although the bus only comes every so often. Still, the biggest items were the airport rides, the long-distance trains/buses, and my ride from Odeceixe to Aljezur. Transport budget can, therefore, be lowered if needed.

TIP: Both Bolt and Uber service the entire region. Have both apps downloaded to maximize your chances of finding a ride.

Cash: 120€

Miscellaneous things like laundry (be prepared to spend some coin on that!), souvenirs, ice creams and who-knows-what else ended up costing me around this amount.

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Unpacked monthly is a space for me to get a bit more personal. I’ll be spilling the tea on what’s been going on in my life, something I rarely do in my writing otherwise. I’ll also share destination highlights with my recommendations, and include reading, listening, and watching tips & anything else I found interesting any given month.

This is a new series, and its format will likely change as we go. But I will be sending this newsletter to my paying subscribers at the end of every month, that much I can promise 🌸

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what was going on in june

Well, let’s get the elephant out of the room, shall we? I got married.

Our wedding took place on the cursed magical day of 6.6.2026 in the blooming backyard of an 18th-century villa that once served as a post office.

And it was beautiful.

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It’s the third day of our tour through the remote landscapes of La Guajira, and this evening is dedicated to meeting the indigenous Wayuu people and spending some time with their clan.

We’re greeted by our host, a cheerful young woman named Ana, whose warm smile immediately puts us at ease. She and her brother will be facilitating our tarde de ranchería and teaching us about the Wayuu lifestyle and culture before we share a typical dinner of goat stew.

One of the girls from our group has a good camera and wastes no time snapping pictures of everything around us, especially the playing children. I ask our host if it’s OK to take photos, and she assures me that it’s fine. The kids are cute as hell and love the attention, but I still decide against sticking a camera in their faces, since they definitely had no say in this whole tourism thing.

Ranchería is the name for a Wayuu settlement. Usually one ranchería is only inhabited by people from the same family or clan.

After a brief tour of the premises, we gather in the communal space to officially start the program. Ana first shows us a collection of colorful handcrafted bags and begins to tell us their story.

“It all starts with our men, who got jobs at the turtle conservation project…”

We’re confused as to what men and turtles have to do with bags, but the point of her tangent is that as the Wayuus were forced to transition from their traditional herding lifestyle to participating in broader Colombian society, men secured employment and the women, too, started looking for ways to make money. Hence, they began selling their traditional crafts. I’m unsure of why they have to credit men for it, but that seems to be the Wayuu way in many aspects, as we soon find out.

The mochila Wayuu is the most exported Colombian handicraft and has, in many ways, become synonymous with the country. Many Colombians have at least one at home.

We look at the selection, and while there’s no pressure to buy, we feel like we should support the hustle. Since I already have a mochila Wayuu, I opt for a pink bottle holder, and David gets a few miniature bags as gifts for his family. It’s only later when we learn that while women weave the bags, the smaller items are actually made by little girls. Now I don’t know whether it was women’s empowerment or child exploitation I just supported, but the deal is already done.

As the visit continues, Ana paints our faces with red ornaments and we all get dressed in traditional Wayuu attire. To everyone’s amusement, David “wins” a rather revealing outfit that looks like a miniskirt accompanied by a shirt with the clan’s name and mascot on the back. Girls are given red mantas, traditional women’s robes ideal for the desert heat.

While many Wayuu wear Western clothes nowadays, they still use their traditional attire for ceremonies and special occasions. Schools also have designated Wayuu clothing days at least once a week, and some workplaces even offer Wayuu-style uniforms.

Once we’re looking the part, we sit around a fire, and Ana gets to storytelling. It’s time to learn about the Wayuu history, customs, and traditions.

Unlike most Western societies, Wayuu society is matrilineal, meaning that women carry on their family, or clan, name. For that reason, women are held in high regard.

That, however, doesn’t mean that they’re emancipated.

As tradition dictates, when a Wayuu girl becomes a woman (read: gets her first period), she’s supposed to seek out her maternal grandmother, who explains to her what’s happening and helps her navigate womanhood locks her in a barn for three years. Yes, really.

During their time locked up, young Wayuu women aren’t allowed to see anyone besides their grandma, get fed a very strict diet of chicha and vegetables (apparently so that they’re used to hunger and trained to feed their children first should they face scarcity), and have to complete a set amount of weaving projects that would become their dowry, including chinchorros (hammocks), mantas, and, of course, bags.

This custom, known as encierro (literally “enclosure”), has been part of the Wayuu culture for centuries, and its rules were only relaxed once the tribe entered the school system. Suddenly, it became unacceptable for girls to miss school for three whole years, and tradition had to make way for education. Nowadays, the encierro is still practiced, but it “only” lasts anywhere from one week to one month.

School is a topic that pops up frequently throughout our conversation with the brother-sister duo. When they were growing up, their closest school was in Nazareth, about a four-hour drive by dirt road, so they had to attend a boarding school. But even getting an education comes with extra sidequests for the Wayuu. The spots at the girls’ internado were limited, so every girl at the boarding school needed to, as you may now be able to predict, weave a certain number of bags to secure her board.

What did the boys have to do to keep their spots? I don’t know.

It’s partly because of the difficult logistics that kids often end up dropping out of school; the brother informs us and proudly adds that he himself finally got his high school diploma recently. He mentions a new school was built closer to their ranchería, making education way more accessible now. I can sense a lot of hope and excitement for the future in his voice.

Loud bleating lets us know that the goats are back, and our task is to lock them in their enclosure before we move on to the next activity: barefoot dancing around the bonfire. The brother brings out chirrinchi and pours shot after shot of this traditional fermented liquor to get us in the mood for a dance. When we’re done making fools out of ourselves (my recently fractured ankle and I can barely walk barefoot, let alone dance), we are finally invited to eat dinner.

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The man is always supposed to dance backwards, otherwise he’ll make a bad husband.

We aren’t the only guests at the ranchería that night. A group of middle-aged French tourists is staying there for a couple of nights to immerse themselves in the culture, and we’d met them in the kitchen helping prepare food earlier. None of them, however, speak any Spanish (let alone Wayuunaiki), so their communication with the clan members is limited to broken phrases and gestures. At dinner, we chat with the family while the other group fills the silence at their side of the table by talking French to each other.

I can’t quite figure out whether to judge them or feel bad for them. I’m just glad not to be them.

Digging into my goat, I ask our hosts if they feel more Wayuu or Colombian, and the response is unsurprising—their indigenous identity comes above all else. The Guajira desert spans Colombia and Venezuela, splitting the Wayuu homeland across a border they never chose. It used to be possible to move freely between the two countries before Venezuela descended into a crisis and Colombia had to enforce a stricter border policy. The situation on the border is only one of the factors that caused the formerly quite well-to-do people’s fairly recent plunge into devastating poverty.

La Guajira sometimes ranks as the poorest department in all of Colombia today, despite producing commodities like salt, natural gas or solar energy, and also attracting tourism.

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The next day at breakfast, it’s time for our backpacker group to debrief. “I know it’s their culture, so I can’t really say it’s wrong,” Greg the Brit opens the can of worms very carefully, “but the whole locking girls up thing really shocked me.” One of the girls is quick to shut the debate down before it even starts: “Well, I don’t care that it’s their culture. It’s just wrong!” End of discussion. I didn’t weigh in on the topic but left this interaction feeling conflicted, as I thought both were kind of right.

Where does women’s liberation end and Western imperialism begin? Are we, in our stupid amount of European privilege, allowed to tell people that their culture is bad and oppressive? Those were only some of the many questions our evening with the Wayuu family left me with.

I’ve always been a bit iffy about visiting indigenous tribes and communities and was never actually seeking this experience out. The ranchería evening was simply a part of our multi-day tour package, so my partner and I figured we’d go and see what happens.

Going into it, I was scared of accidentally participating in some weird human zoo-coded voyeuristic poverty porn. Instead, I spent the time listening to people’s folklore, stories, and learning about the challenges they face out in the desert. I can’t say with certainty it was all 100% ethical. All I know is that it was 100% human, and at the end of the day, I’m glad I did this.

Communities like this ranchería, remote and largely abandoned by the state, are in a constant balancing act of preserving their way of life while being forced to participate in the education system, the labor market, and capitalism in general. For the Wayuu—and many indigenous people worldwide—“performing” culture for tourists serves more than just one purpose. Yes, it’s a source of income. But it’s also a plea for visibility and recognition in a country that still tends to look down on them. It’s asserting their importance in a society that loves to show off the Wayuu bags while overlooking the people who weave them.

The community doesn’t just benefit directly from tourist money and bag sales. Having a relationship with tour operators gives them the option to have food delivered from the city, which is an incredibly valuable asset in such a remote place with no shops or markets nearby. Our car had bags of rice in the trunk, and that was a reason enough for the Wayuu to be happy to see us.

How do they let the tour operator know what they need? WhatsApp, of course, because yes, they do have smartphones, even though with sparse electricity, it can sometimes be tricky to charge them.

I might have become a bit more understanding when it comes to visiting indigenous people, but I still believe it always should come with some level of responsibility, openmindedness, and humility.

If visiting a community or a tribe, ask yourself this:

Are you happy to share space with those people and treat them as equals, or are you there just to stare and take photos?

Are you coming to reinforce your own worldview, or are you willing to listen to someone who likely subscribes to a completely different set of values?

Are you expecting a blast from the past, or can you engage with people where they are right now, even if that means that they might ask you to follow their Tiktok accounts?

And are you able to refrain from passing judgment, even if what you learn and witness shocks you?

If you’re ever in Colombia, I highly recommend giving this overlooked region a chance. Don’t attempt without a reputable tour. We booked through Pura Guajira and I have nothing but great things to say about them.

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The goal here is, as always, to learn about less-known yet fascinating places around the world and plan out realistic ways to visit them.

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This niche bucketlist destination is brought to you by who will take us back to Europe! I always love a truly niche European destination so her pitch was an absolute blessing. Without further ado, let’s learn about a cool place to visit.

Hi, I’m Dinara. I moved from Kazakhstan to Berlin, Germany a few years ago, and suddenly found myself exposed to a multitude of cultures I wanted to understand—and not enough money or annual leave to do it properly. So I started to read a book from every country in the world. On my Substack, I Am Booked, I write about what each book teaches me about a place, and occasionally, what it feels like to be figuring out life as a foreigner yourself.

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Bulgaria is located in a part of Europe I am very interested in because of its rich and nuanced history. Also, Bulgaria used to be a part of the Ottoman Empire, and my own country, Kazakhstan, used to be a part of the Russian Empire, and later the Soviet Union, so I figured we might have something in common.

To be honest, I hadn’t heard about Plovdiv before my partner and I started researching for our trip to Bulgaria. We were working remotely from Sofia for two weeks, and wanted to organise a day trip somewhere over the weekend. Plovdiv worked well in terms of the distance and means of travel, but when I learned more about the city, I was amazed to find out that it was the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe.

That fact alone set some expectations already, but when I got to Plovdiv and saw how beautiful and colourful it was (not to mention countless cats on the streets), I fell in love once and for all.

When I got back and started telling everyone about it, I realized that not so many people knew about it, so I thought it would make a perfect candidate for the niche bucketlist series.

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what & where

Plovdiv is the second-largest city in Bulgaria and the most populous city in the Bulgarian part of the historic region of Thrace - around 330 000 people lived there as of 2024. It is located in south-central Bulgaria on the banks of the Maritsa River.

The city has historically developed on seven hills, some of which are 250 metres tall. Because of that, Plovdiv is often referred to in Bulgaria as "The City of the Seven Hills".

why visit

architecture

Plovdiv is worth visiting for the tremendous architectural diversity. When I visited, it reminded me of an ancient Roman city, Istanbul, a medieval European town, and a cozy Eastern village. That’s because Plovdiv is all of these things at once!

history

The city has a stunningly rich and layered history. There’s evidence that it was inhabited as far back as the 6th millennium BC. Plovdiv then became a Thracian settlement and was later conquered and ruled by the Persians, Ancient Macedonians, Celts, Romans, Byzantines, Goths, Huns, Bulgarians, Thraco-Romans, Bulgars, Slavic tribes, Crusaders, and Ottoman Turks.

You can see evidence of this all over the city—in its narrow cobbled streets and Roman ruins popping up here and there, in beautiful wooden National Revival Houses, and in the richly painted Orthodox churches.

If you’re a history buff, you’ll enjoy your time there. Plovdiv is one of the few cities that has not one, but two ancient theatres, not to mention the remains of the medieval walls and towers, Ottoman baths and mosques, and a well-preserved old quarter from the Bulgarian National Revival period.

how to get there & around

There are two good options:

1. Take a bus or a train to Plovdiv from Sofia. I took a bus there and returned via a train, and they were both on time and quite comfortable. A one-way trip from Sofia takes about 2,5-3 hours, making it an easy day trip.

2. Fly directly to Plovdiv. Currently, this option is available from Tel Aviv, Bratislava, London, Birmingham, Manchester, Belfast, and Milan.

I’d say visiting from Sofia would be the easiest, because Sofia is much better connected to the rest of the world.

Once you get to Plovdiv, you can walk everywhere - that’s what we did. The city also has a well-developed cycling infrastructure, although I haven’t tried it myself.

Accomodation

I didn’t stay overnight myself, but there are many accommodation options in the city, including budget ones like hostels and aparthotels.

what else to know

• If you like quirky neighbourhoods, definitely stop by the Kapana district. It has existed for about 500 years and has been home to craftspeople like smiths and potters. Now it’s filled with all kinds of restaurants, little antique and second-hand shops, and street art. That’s also where the city’s main Dzhumaya mosque is located. By the way, this is the first mosque I’ve seen with a coffee shop attached to it.

• If you visit in summer, check out local theatres. Seeing a performance in a real Roman Odeon open-air theatre is an opportunity not to miss!

• Try as many Bulgarian dishes as you can. In my opinion, Bulgarian cuisine is severely underrated. They have the best sheep cheese I’ve ever tried in my life, and I still miss bannitsa, a flaky crunchy pastry filled with cheese, apple, or pumpkin. I can feel my mouth watering even as I write this!

In case you missed the previous niche bucketlist destination, check it out below ⬇️

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fialka

“Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer”

“My life because I chose to spend my money on experiences over material things”

“I don’t remember how much I spent on traveling but I remember (eating different traditional dishes in different countries around the world)”

Some version of this one-liner is trending every couple of months. You’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. We’ve all seen it, some of us have participated in it (guilty). Gen Z is supposedly always on a trip abroad, often funded by money they never had in the first place. Spending hard-earned cash on material possessions is cheugy; dishing out an equivalent of a small house down payment on a Euro summer is aspirational. We are young and the money will, unlike our best years, make its way back to us later.

But does the money really always come back? Or are we creating a culture of irresponsible spending, frivolous debt, and promoting escapism instead of improving our day-to-day lives? And, all things considered, is spending on experiences really an investment, or are we merely replacing one form of overconsumption with another?

the commodification of experience

The idea that travel as a concept has fallen victim to overconsumption isn’t new, and many writers, video essayists, TikTokers and other great thinkers of our time (myself included) are busy exploring that phenomenon.

Travel-related consumption has two layers. First comes the travel-adjacent spending. Airfare and hotels and entertainment, of course, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Once we peek under the surface, we find the mandatory pre-vacation glow-up, the “must-have travel hacks”, the latest hiking gear, the new trendy camera, the themed outfits. Stocking up on random essentials because other countries surely don’t have shops that sell ibuprofen and shampoo. Almost as if overconsumption doesn’t count as long as it’s in the name of an international trip. And, as girl math dictates, spending in foreign currency doesn’t count either; enter the vacation hauls and useless souvenir hoarding.

Then comes the final boss, a “how much I spent in Europe” TikTok with a curtsy and a number some people don’t see in a whole year.

@portialeanageurope we’ll be back 🫡 #europe #eurosummer #sailcroatia #contiki

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Then, there’s the consumption of destinations and the concept of travel itself. We get the inspo for our trips from social media to post about the trip, again, on social media, reinforcing the loop. We follow influencer recommended or AI generated itineraries, we buy packaged tours and experiences designed to let us turn our brains off and be entertained. We trick ourselves into equating travel abroad with some greater meaning, forgetting that most trips are really just vacations to catch a break from the mundanity of our daily lives, and that’s OK, too.

The “things bad, experiences good” dichotomy we’ve created only exists to mask the fact that in the end of the day, much of our behavior is still consumption-driven regardless of what we choose to spend on. It’s what capitalism does best—take a counterculture and sell the idea of it back to us, hollowed out and repackaged.

the money trap

Over 30% of Americans are willing to go into debt for trips abroad. This already alarming number is even higher for Millennials and Gen Z folks, who are also notoriously less well off than their generational predecessors. I’d say something like “damn, these Americans are crazy” if I didn’t know people in my own circle who are also more than happy to put a holiday on a credit card.

Again, I blame social media-induced peer pressure and the constant messaging that going abroad = investment in oneself, in tandem with the portrayal of traveling as something we simply must do to live a fulfilled life. On the other hand, not being interested in travel is sometimes seen as uncultured, ignorant or boring. The overwhelming expectation to not only travel, but travel the right way, can push people to spend on going to places or doing activities they would have zero interest in otherwise.

self-exploration through tourism

The “Eat, Pray, Love” narrative is another clever way to justify spending exorbitant amounts of money on travel. We often hear that “flights are cheaper than therapy”, but does a yoga retreat have the same effect on our mental well-being as months of inner work guided by a certified professional in the long run? Or will our problems return from their vacation the minute we do?

How many more “Bali didn’t heal me” articles do we need to read before realizing that going to Bali (or anywhere else) will, in fact, not heal us? Sometimes, the most miserable and lost people you’ll ever meet are those in their fifth year of finding themselves abroad, no matter how great their lives may look online.

In the video The Myth of ‘Finding Yourself’ Through Tourism, Charli touches on many interesting points related to this topic, but what caught my attention the most was the title itself. “Finding ourselves through travel” seems like a noble endeavor, but the moment we swap the word “travel” for “tourism”, the whole thing starts to sound a bit silly, doesn’t it?

Travel can deepen learning, but we often exaggerate how necessary international movement is for personal growth that could also begin at home. It is not necessary to fly to Thailand to learn about Buddhism, or to Italy to learn how to cook, or to the Amazon to do a bunch of glamorized psychedelics. The going abroad part is a luxury add-on and should be viewed as such.

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the post-travel blues

Online, the most prominent voices in the travel space are those who managed to turn their wanderings into their careers, or those who are currently traveling and attempting to follow that same path. For that reason, it can often look like permanent vacation is a perfectly attainable lifestyle everyone should aspire to, and that the money spent will come back to us in the form of paid partnerships and internet fame.

We rarely ever hear from all those people who didn’t quite make it. The twenty-somethings who didn’t manage to magically build a six-figure business from the beach or garner a massive following. Those who got duped into spending their savings on trips, went into debt and returned home only to move back in with their parents and get rejected from hundreds of job applications. But those stories are real and equally important to highlight so that we can understand the full picture.

The thing not talked about enough is the opportunity cost of long-term travel. Backpacking for a year or two in your 20s sounds like a dream, but it does come at a price. When traveling, we aren’t typically building a career or obtaining marketable skills (unsexy, I know, but kind of necessary for survival). Not to discount the connections we make abroad, but we aren’t really building a community or relationships, either. We stop participating in politics or activism back home in the hope that someone else who stayed would improve things for us instead. Nonstop travel can be hard on our bodies and overall health, too. If we fail to plan for the future and bet everything on figuring it all out while abroad, the return to reality can be more destabilizing than the trip was enriching.

As this video unfortunately* points out quite perfectly, the beautiful places we love to explore are built by the people who stayed. And as Sema Karaman said in her viral and brilliant essay, maybe we need to travel less and commit and cultivate instead.

* I don’t necessarily agree with the rest of the ideas presented on that channel.

a case for mindful travel

When I talk about traveling mindfully, it’s usually in relation to the places we visit. Nonetheless, I believe it’s equally important to stay mindful of ourselves, our bank accounts, and our futures.

I’m not here to build another case against travel. On the contrary, I am still convinced that travel has the potential to enrich and better us in so many ways, and anyone who is at least a little bit curious about seeing the world should absolutely give it a go. Just maybe not at the expense of literally everything else. Saving up, budgeting, traveling within your means instead of trying to aspire to a standard set by someone way outside of your tax bracket, and having some sort of plan for when you return are all crucial things to consider when planning a truly successful trip.

I don’t believe that travel is something we buy that makes us richer. It’s valuable, but not inherently, not automatically, not at any cost. It can also be—and often is—just another vice, another product we buy for a quick dopamine hit. A socially acceptable way to engage in consumption-powered escapism. Travel is not the simple spend money = gain personal growth or cultural insight equation. Intent and action are required to get that desired effect.

Real travel happens when our minds go somewhere new. You can go far and mentally never leave your home at all. Betterment can’t be purchased outright or earned through air miles.

Booking yet another trip in hopes that this surely is the one to make you a better person is likely to leave you monetarily poorer instead of spiritually richer in the long run.

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fialka

My first stop was the southern city of Faro, where I found a work exchange in a hostel. Faro is a student town, mostly known for having an airport people fly to before making their way to Lagos, Albufeira, or Vilamoura. Towards the end of the season, the weather was still warm and sunny, but tourism had started to slow down, leaving us volunteers with plenty of free time to explore the rest of the Algarve. It was easy to fall madly in love with the rugged Portuguese coast, with its abundance of cliffs and caves and hidden beaches one could only reach via steep climbs. The coastline became my playground, and in those early days of awe and wonder, I genuinely believed this region to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

One evening at Fábrica dos Sentidos, part weird art gallery, part cultural space, part bar that supposedly didn’t allow foreigners in and sadly doesn’t exist anymore, I met an eccentric local guy who told me about the Vicentine Coast, a part of the country which was supposed to be as charming as the southern cliffs my heart was drawn to so much, but without the mass tourism. He talked at length about how in Alentejo, he would hike naked because he wouldn’t see another human being for the whole day. It was just Mother Nature and him in his most natural form.

While I’m not into walking around in my birthday suit, this information stuck with me. I later looked up the places he was telling me about and found out that there was a long coastal hike across the entire region called the Fishermen’s Trail. It lived on my bucketlist ever since, but it took me 9 long years to finally pull the trigger and walk it.

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In the spring of 2026, I returned from my 8-day solo hike on the Fishermen’s Trail with mixed feelings and unsure of what caused the disconnect. Was it the long wait along with the massive expectations? Was it because I’m no longer 22 and easily impressed? Has the trail itself changed over those years in a way that I don’t resonate with? I spent days trying to figure out what exactly wasn’t hitting the spot.

getting myself out of the way

Several aspects of why I didn’t enjoy the trail as much as I thought I would are definitely the result of my own lapse of judgment.

For starters, I realized that I’m probably not into hiking all that much.

Which is kind of a big deal when you plan to hike for 8 days straight.

Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate a good day outdoors, especially if I get rewarded by beautiful views and pastéis de nata at the end of it. But eight days are quite a different ballpark. I enjoyed my first two days on the trail. By day 3, I started questioning what the point of it all was. On day 4, I proclaimed I hated everything about the experience.

In lieu of that realization, it also became very clear that outdoor culture is not something I’m super familiar with. I’m a backpacker, I’m a diver, those are identities I can embody and through which I can connect with others wherever I go. Long-distance hiking? Not so much. A girl I met on the trail asked me what other hikes were on my bucketlist. My answer was: uh, idk, none? We didn’t talk for much longer after that.

Being a first-timer, there were many things I couldn’t grasp. Like why do people find it acceptable to leave tissues and toilet paper around the trail. Or why so many insist on sleeping outside when it’s clearly prohibited for a reason. Or why are hikers always on the hunt for gas cartridges or at their hostels cooking pasta instead of trying the local cuisine. Or the general aura of entitlement I could sometimes sense from the people around me.

But that’s OK. This experience was always designed to get me out of my comfort zone. The problem was that I expected personal growth and grand revelations about life as a reward for my effort but all I got were sore feet and blisters. Which, again, is absolutely a me issue.

why do people do this again?

I tried to search the web to see if anyone out there could relate to what I felt, but with no luck. Most people giving anything but glowing reviews typically complain about terrain difficulty, sand, or lack of shade and refreshments on the trail, and looking back, I didn’t mind any of these things too much. My main problem was a bit more abstract—I just didn’t find the whole thing that enjoyable.

First things first, I was promised to be alone and naked on the cliffs. But that was 9 years ago, and just like my fiancé, who recently crashed out over finding out that Tame Impala is a very popular mainstream artist now, I, too, was quite unpleasantly surprised that the Fishermen’s Trail is definitely not a niche bucketlist experience.

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In fact, during the main hiking season (April and May), the trail was operating at near full capacity. The entire route is divided into 12 stages, each of which ends in a village where you’re supposed to stay overnight, but accommodations in some villages now book out several months in advance. With wild camping strictly forbidden along the entire coast and the lack of campsites in some areas, hikers are left with few options. I booked my stays about three to four weeks in advance, congratulating myself for being a responsible planner who doesn’t leave things for the last minute anymore. Still, I struggled to find affordable (or, in some cases, any) accom in three out of my eight stops.

This, of course, pushes people to camp illegally, combine stages into extremely long walking days, or take other desperate measures. My solution was to share private rooms with strangers in an effort to help somebody out and be pro-social, which worked out only partially.

With this many hikers around, you are rarely walking truly alone, which I honestly wouldn’t mind if everyone I ran into were nice and friendly. Sadly, that only happened about half of the time. The other half of the people on the trail wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge my presence.

One of the things that surprised me the most was the trail’s demographics. The average hiker age must have been around 50 or more, with most being older German-speaking couples and groups, followed by English speakers and some other mostly Western or Central Europeans, including my fellow Czechs. I haven’t seen many other people walking the trail solo, and I only met a few hikers who looked my age or younger.

This made for some bizarre sights. In the small village of Almograve, I couldn’t find a bed anymore and was forced to book an overpriced private room in a rather run-down place called Pousada de Juventude, which literally translates to “Youth Hostel”. Not only did I end up sharing that room with a Canadian retiree, but when I came down for breakfast the next day, I realized that at 31, I was the youngest person around by far, which meant that all the cheap bunk beds must have been copped by the elderly.

Before I get accused of rancid ageism, hear me out. Yes, old people can travel, too, and they were all probably better and more experienced hikers than myself. But I come from the backpacking culture, and when I stay in a hostel, I expect a certain kind of atmosphere. Social, friendly, laid back and, well, young—at least in spirit. Most of the places I stayed in on the trail were the opposite of that, with the schedule of most people being arrive → shower → laundry → eat → sleep by 8PM → wake up before 7AM → leave ASAP. I still don’t understand why everyone seemed to be in such a rush.

I walked the trail solo, always surrounded by other people but rarely connecting with them. Although I did meet some lovely souls I ended up having interesting and insightful conversations with, the vibes were ever so slightly off most of the time.

the hiker vs the village

Another thing I found to be glaringly absent from the whole experience besides camaraderie was Portuguese culture and people.

This is not a trek through the great outdoors. You’re never too far from a road or a house, and you stay in villages overnight. I was especially curious about what life in the countryside looks like, especially the inland parts like Aljezur, as during my previous few visits to the country, I barely ever strayed away from the Atlantic coast.

Alentejo is currently the poorest region in Portugal, with the majority of its area being covered by farmland. It also produces many staples of the Portuguese diet like wheat, wine, cheese, olives & olive oil, or pork.

As a hiker, you get the chance to marvel at the views. You walk through the fields and orchards. You pass the grazing livestock. But your only interaction with the people who created these sceneries is at the bakery, as they take your order of coffee and toast in English before you start your walk. On the trail, I felt disconnected not only from others, but also from the very country I was walking through.

Rota Vicentina, to which the Fishermen’s Trail belongs, is only about 15 years old and its recent growth in popularity brings new traffic and business to an otherwise overlooked part of Portugal, that’s true. I’m sure the owners of B&Bs and restaurants are happy about the steady influx of tourists. At the same time, the thru-hiker is a transient, rigid, and often stingy kind of visitor. I wondered whether having more flexibility in my schedule would have allowed for a slower pace and a more immersive experience with more opportunity to actually support the region in a meaningful way. The trail confines your experience to the trail. It is, in its very essence, a superficial way to travel—the opposite of what my philosophy is.

As it turns out, I’m not someone who can appreciate nature in a vacuum, without ever considering or connecting with the people who inhabit it.

The more time I spent hiking, the more I started to feel like I was doing the exact thing I spoke out against in my article the human urge to conquer nature. I was hiking for the sake of hiking, to prove that I could do it. The cliffs and beaches, although beautiful, could be better explored by driving there and staying for the day. I had some other objectives, such as digital detox (which paradoxically probably made me enjoy even less), but when it was all done, I felt bored and like I learned nothing, be it about the country or about myself.

The Fishermen’s Trail offers breathtaking sights, good food, and a moderate physical challenge. It is, however, just a hike. To me, it felt hollow, flavorless, slightly unfriendly, and not worth the effort or the 9-year wait. If you like hiking, nature, and pastries, and that’s all you care about, you will love it.

As for me though, maybe I actually wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago all along.

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Relevant topics →

Thanks for reading! All unpacked content is free, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work. Give the post a like ❤️ (even if you don’t have a Substack account), share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or buy me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

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Appreciate your support xx

fialka

I haven’t done too much research on the place beforehand. The internet explained it to me as a chill, semi-rural beach town where one can ride a bike around various parks and surf. Sounds good enough, and it was the next logical stop on my journey around the island anyway.

I missed my train to Taitung, and this minor annoyance set the tone for the rest of my stay there. Up until that point, I’ve been having an absolute blast in Taiwan. There wasn’t a place I wouldn’t thoroughly enjoy, and I never felt lonely, unsafe, or spooked despite traveling solo for the most part.

Upon arrival, I was met with gloomy weather—an unwelcome change from the sunny southern tip of the island I’d just left—and an atmosphere that instantly felt a tad uneasy. That feeling only intensified once I made it to my accommodation, a hostel I’d booked for two nights to do my laundry and increase the chances of meeting some nice people to chat with. To my surprise, I was the only guest there for the foreseeable future. Yes, it was off-season and yes, it was Christmas time. But I did see other foreign tourists in this town, even on that same day, so although I would’t expect the hostel to be packed, I never imagined my stay there to be this eerily quiet.

I’m not one to get scared when home alone at night, but being left completely on my own in an old four-story building in a foreign country was pushing my limits a little bit.

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My plan for the rest of the day was quite chill. I booked myself a table for one in a highly rated tonkatsu restaurant to enjoy a nice Christmas dinner (a Japanese schnitzel is the closest I could get to a traditional Czech Christmas dinner in Taiwan), then I’d go get dessert, and after that I’d finish off the evening by getting through the obligatory Merry Christmas phone calls to my fiancé, family, and friends.

Since I’d spent most of the day on buses and trains, I decided to walk to the restaurant and get some steps in. On my stroll, I noticed another thing about Taitung: even though it was marketed as a bike-friendly town, the streets I was passing didn’t have any bike lanes or even sidewalks, unlike most places I’d visited previously on the island. Walking around was proving a bit stressful, and I started regretting not taking an Uber. Still, I decided not to let my first impressions dampen my mood. I was feeling festive and very, very hungry.

At the restaurant, I was greeted in surprisingly decent English by a lovely staff member who showed me to my table, right next to a young family with two small children. I took my time translating the menu, ordered some food via the provided QR code, and raided the self-service bar for some unlimited milk tea. Finally, a moment to unwind.

As I was sitting there, sipping my complimentary tea and waiting for my food to arrive, I got a WhatsApp message from my fiancé who had just woken up seven timezones away. I only managed to get about halfway through a reply when I suddenly felt it.

Everything around me started to shake. Not vibrate—shake, quake, and tremble. I was on the 2nd floor of a mall, so feeling the entire building sway from side to side like it was made of paper didn’t seem quite right.

For a second, I completely froze in confusion. Where I’m from, we’re blessed with not having to deal with many destructive forces of nature, and consequently, I wasn’t ever taught how to act when such things happen. Having never experienced anything like this before, I was woefully unequipped for the situation and in the very first moments, I even caught myself questioning my perception of reality.

“Am I tripping or is this an earthquake?”

The only thing I knew about earthquakes was that you need to get under a table. Luckily, being in a restaurant, finding a table wasn’t an issue and I happened to have one all for myself. As soon as my slow and puzzled brain determined that we were indeed experiencing an earthquake, I slid under my table just as people around me started doing the same thing, providing me with some reassurance that my thought process wasn’t completely off the rails.

Ducked on the floor, I quickly deleted the message I was originally typing and sent this instead in case I was about to die:

One of the many things I didn’t know about earthquakes is that they’re very short. In what felt like eternity but was realistically probably less than 30 seconds, it was all over. Another minute passed and the diners around me started emerging from under their tables, so I followed suit. Back on my feet, I could finally look around and examine the aftermath.

The place was a bit messy now, with some objects having fallen or moved from their original spots, but no horrible damage was sustained. My table was covered with a thin layer of fine dust from the shake-up. A few lights stopped working, yet no glass was broken. Next to me, right above the kids’ prams, a panel had partially detached from the ceiling and was now hanging there menacingly. Had it fallen off completely, this story might have taken a very dark turn.

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Luckily though, everyone around me was unharmed and, to my surprise, rather unfazed. With the exception of the understandably distressed family next to me, the other guests calmly documented the scene on their smartphones and carried on.

In stark contrast, I was sitting there like a sack of potatoes, completely dumbfounded and slowly processing what just happened. A staff member noticed that and asked if I was OK. “I’m fine,” I told him, “but, you know, this was my first earthquake so I’m a bit shocked.” He looked surprised and probably found that endearing, like when I watch people from tropical countries touch snow for the very first time.

I was offered a seat in a less damaged part of the restaurant, and in that moment, I found it bizarre. How was I supposed to go straight back to munching on a glamorized schnitzel as if I hadn’t feared for my life only a few moments earlier? But everyone else was switching tables and digging into their meals as well, and at that point, a girl was starving.

In an event like this, you get an alert from the government on your phone. It includes a link that guides you through how to act depending where you are at the moment. For some reason, however, despite being literally on my phone when the earthquake started, I didn’t see the alert until much later.

I thought I had a story here, a unique experience, but I endured two more earthquakes before I left Taiwan a week later. The second one was more of an aftershock that happened later on that same day. It woke me up, but since its strength was nowhere near the previous one, I managed to remain calm even alone at night in a haunted hostel.

Third time the charm, I was in the city of Hualien, a place that was struck by a tragedy in 2024, when a devastating earthquake of 7.4 magnitude took several lives, destroyed hundreds of homes, and damaged large portions of the Taroko National Park. The stunning wonder of nature that used to be the highlight of many trips to Taiwan now remains largely inaccessible while its infrastructure is still being repaired to this day, nearly 2 years after the disaster.

The 2025 7.0 earthquake caught me by surprise around midnight on the way home from a bar, but at least this time around, I had company. My friends and I all got alerts in the middle of an empty street, and just as we checked our phones to see what was happening, I, yet again, felt the ground shake under my feet.

This time around, I wasn’t scared. Maybe because we were further away from the epicentre. Maybe I was already used to it, just like the Taiwanese locals at the restaurant. Maybe being on street level makes you feel more grounded, for all I know. Perhaps being tipsy and with my friends played a role, too.

This event made the news worldwide despite causing no major damage anywhere on the island, as if to express everyone’s relief. Hualien County barely had time to recover from what had happened just a year prior, as we got to witness first-hand on the next day during our very limited visit to Taroko.

In the backseat, as my friend was taking us on a scenic drive through the gorge during one of the government-mandated time windows when entering the park is permitted, I caught myself in a rare moment of feeling alive and being thankful for it.

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fialka

If you’ve ever considered visiting Latin America, you have probably had someone ask you this exact question already.

The concern usually comes from a place of love and isn’t completely unfounded. Most of Latin America’s history is bloody, and it’s not like the violent chapter is completely over. Even in the past couple of months, we’ve been seeing some disturbing news coming from the region, from the capture of the Venezuelan president by the US to outbreaks of violence in Mexico after the death of El Mencho. Point is, there are many valid reasons to question a trip to this corner of the world. The history, the news, and the negative portrayal pushed by legacy media have created a strong link between Latin American countries and danger in the minds of people worldwide.

At the same time, “notorious” countries like Mexico, Colombia, or Brazil are becoming increasingly trendy tourist destinations. Vibrant cultures, kind people, and the natural beauty of these places make the visit worth the risk, it seems.

Travel content creators exploring this fascinating yet complicated part of the world are then presented with a unique choice: How do you talk about a country everyone warned you about? Will you play into the danger aspect? Will you dramatize your vacation for clicks and views? Or will you subvert the expectations and tell everyone how safe you felt in Medellín?

From what I keep seeing online, it can go either way, and frankly, I find both options unhelpful. Let’s unpack.

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option 1: manufactured bravery

Most travel content—blogs, videos, and even literature—tends to rely on shock value. It often centres around the negative reputation of a given country or city to then paint the foreign narrator as a brave protagonist who “dared” to explore such a grim place. This practice has a longer history than we realize, dating all the way back to the fear of cannibals.

99% of the time, travelers don’t come anywhere near being in an actually unsafe situation, yet they’ll gladly use the perceived risk to farm likes online.

You go to CDMX and stay in Roma or Condesa. In Medellín it’s Poblado and Laureles, Lima has Miraflores and Rio the famous Ipanema. Every major city offers a relatively safe neighborhood with trendy shops, cafés and plenty of tourist accommodation and entertainment options. These insulated pockets of wealth might not represent each city or country as a whole, but they are how Latin America likes to present itself — safe, modern, cool. For that reason, visitors are likely to spend most of their time in these exceptional zones. It’s easy to paint yourself as a brave explorer from a guarded Starbucks.

But beautiful upscale neighborhoods don’t fit the stereotype, so tourists like to leave their safe havens in pursuit of performative danger. Medellín’s Comuna 13 provides the best example of this. What was a gnarly no-go zone a couple of decades ago is now a gentrified tourist trap, but that doesn’t stop people from visiting, taking a bunch of staged pictures, filming local kids, and titling their post “checking out Pablo Escobar’s hood (we survived).”

People who do find themselves in actual rough parts of town are usually those who pay to get there safely. Surprise! If you book a curated favela tour, you are pretty likely to live to tell the story and give a good Google review. It’s really not the super adventurous move people make it out to be.

Another fact often left out of these narratives is that tourism in many parts of Latin America operates along highly structured routes, collectively referred to as the “gringo trail.” These are well-established circuits connecting popular destinations, supported by hotels, hostels, shuttle networks, tour operators, and businesses that cater specifically to foreign visitors. As long as you stay on the pre-approved trail, the actual danger is minimal.

But wait! That’s not a bad thing. Some places are simply not for romantically getting lost, and that’s OK. A certain group of people, however, would like to convince you otherwise, which leads me to…

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option 2: the illusion of safety

This is the narrative created and spread by creators who try to overcorrect the popular storyline. They are mostly well-intentioned in attempting to “show the good side,” where Latin America is a perfect paradise full of lovely locals, where nothing bad ever happens, or at least not to them.

You can encounter this in the form of aesthetic footage of beautiful nature or people dancing, smiling, cooking and overall being non-threatening. That all is typically supported by a caption along the lines of “this is the country someone who has never visited told me was too dangerous btw” or “the only danger here is that you’ll want to stay, hehe.”

I can tell that it comes from a good place, but I still find this type of messaging a bit irresponsible at best, and straight-up misinformative at worst. And when personal safety is at stake, trusting the wrong information can have real world consequences.

As someone who grew up and lives in a country with almost no violent crime, I wouldn’t call most places I’ve visited in Latin America safe. Where I live, I can walk by myself almost anywhere at any time of the day. I’m never scared to take a taxi or to approach a stranger. People will steal your stuff but won’t hold you at gunpoint for an iPhone. I get to navigate life free from fear, something I and many others often take for granted.

I can’t say the same thing about Bogotá. When in Colombia, I’m always alert and never at ease. Phone is never out, jewelry stays at home, volume is down when talking in English, and walking anywhere by myself after dark is not something I’d even consider. This state of being “switched on” is something I had to learn from my Colombian fiancé, as the instincts of people who, like me, grew up in safety, tend not to be very sharp.

You often hear things like “I felt very safe” or “Nothing happened to me” as testimony from content creators when confronted with the danger question, and while I’m happy for them, these statements don’t mean much. “Feeling safe” is subjective and misreading a situation is easy. A catcall may freak us out, but it’s more often than not harmless. On the other hand, one might feel perfectly secure while reading in a park in broad daylight in a familiar neighborhood, yet that’s exactly how my brother-in-law (a 15-year-old Bogotá local) got robbed. You can’t evaluate risk based on vibes alone.

the unmarketable, nuanced reality

While drugs, violence, crime and danger are things Colombia and many other countries across the Americas would like to remove from their public perception, I believe that we shouldn’t be trying to sell people the idea that there are no risks whatsoever. What might be more productive is to give this complex topic the nuance it deserves and teach people how to visit responsibly.

Truth is, at least in Colombia, tourists still get robbed, mugged, and sometimes killed. It’s not talked about much, but tragedies do happen. But here’s the catch: most of them are the result of people either being unaware of the potential risk or in complete denial.

In early 2026, a young German tourist was killed in La Guajira when exploring the area solo on a motorbike. It is recommended to enter this zone, especially the Alta Guajira desert where the crime occurred, only with a reputable tour company.

In 2025, the country was shocked after body parts were discovered in the jungle of Sierra Nevada. They belonged to an Italian biologist who was visiting Colombia to document its wildlife. The perpetrators, who seem to have been caught, lured the man out to a remote location via Grindr, where they robbed and ultimately murdered him.

Medellín sees at least a couple of tourist deaths each year. Most of them are being attributed to criminals who target passport bros via dating apps.

I also remember reading a story about an older tourist couple being killed during a robbery in Santa Marta. They were approached after taking out cash from an ATM, the man tried to put up a fight, and they both ended up dead.

Not to blame the victims here; nobody deserves to die this way. But what all the abovementioned cases had in common is that the victims made mistakes, and taking basic precautions might have made all the difference.

a few LatAm safety tips

vague enough to apply across the board, from someone who hasn’t been mugged (yet):

1. the basics

Try not to stand out. Colombians say “don’t give papaya”, which means “don’t put yourself in a situation where you could be taken advantage of.” Looking lost, speaking loud English, wearing expensive outfits, not being mindful of your belongings, or sometimes even just being overly friendly or trusting are all signs of someone offering a juicy papaya to the thieves.

Hasan Piker might be able to walk the streets of Havana in Cartier but you most definitely should not try this yourself.

2. ask locals for advice

Don’t take your safety advice from influencers and other tourists online! The situation might have changed since they visited and they’re most likely going off of gut feeling anyway. Ask the taxi driver, ask the hotel front desk, ask at the bar, ask multiple people in case one of them isn’t trustworthy. Most of the time, they will tell you exactly what to do. And if they say don’t be out on the streets after 10 PM, follow that rule.

3. stay informed

Things can change rapidly in countries where gangs, guerrillas, or government instability are an issue. Read the news. Be aware of what’s going on with the local politics. Go to dedicated Facebook groups or Reddit if you need to know what people are talking about in any given moment, but refer to point #2 for specific safety recommendations.

4. if shit hits the fan, go with the shitstorm

Personally, I haven’t been in this situation, but this is probably the most important piece of the puzzle. If you’re being robbed, let them. Give away your belongings, passwords, and do everything else you’re being asked to do. Don’t try to run, fight, or outsmart the attacker and keep your life. Although these people typically don’t want to kill you, they absolutely will if they feel like they have no other option.

So, is it dangerous?

The only correct answer is: depends.

A place not being 100% safe doesn’t mean dropping dead the minute you land or having to fear for your life constantly. All it means is that your visit requires more careful planning, more street smarts, more common sense. It means adjusting one’s behavior to prioritize personal safety rather than expecting it automatically.

I’ll leave you with this:

If you’re planning a trip to a place with a reputation, educate yourself. Don’t trust random people on the internet to have your best interest at heart.

And if you’re a writer, journalist, or content creator—please be honest when documenting your travels. Extreme claims sell, but you’re doing a disservice to everyone who consumes what you create if you leave out all the details.

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If you enjoyed this, I wrote about a similar topic from a slightly different angle already, give it a read:

All unpacked content is free, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work: give the post a like ❤️ , share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or consider buying me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

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Thank you for being here xx

fialka

One of the most popular places for remote workers to move to in recent years has been Portugal. ‘Low’ cost of living, sunshine, sea, surf, and tax-friendly visa programs have turned the country into the digital nomad hub it is today practically overnight. Lisbon, Porto, Madeira, surf villages like Ericeira, as well as the Algarve region, have all been seeing a massive influx of high-income foreign migrants looking to settle in the country temporarily, either as part of their digital nomad journeys or to use the Portuguese system as a pathway to EU citizenship.

Even here on Substack, I run into a profile of someone living in or moving to Portugal almost weekly. The content I see is typically all sunshine and rainbows—pasteis de nata, a sunset glass of wine at a miradouro, colorful tiled houses, surf sessions, beach days, laptops in trendy cafés, slow living. Perfect paradise. “Lisbon is the new New York, only with better weather.”

Not much else is being said or shown, aside from someone occasionally complaining about bureaucracy and this lady who took it upon herself to trashtalk the entire Portuguese population for not being progressive enough because… samba?

Portugal is undoubtedly changing. I’ve visited several times over the past decade, and each time it felt a little different. But as a visitor, I can only see the surface.

Luckily, I happen to know someone who has watched these changes happen from the inside.

Aneta was the first Portuguese link for many Czechs, as she made her first move to Lisbon in 2016, years before it became everyone’s favorite city. She would probably reject the label "influencer" but her actual influence on early interest in the country among Czech internet users can’t be denied. I first messaged her because I was considering Portugal for a study abroad semester that didn’t work out—and the rest is history.

These days, however, she’s increasingly more in the business of deinfluencing—trying to shed light on the unglamorous side of Portuguese living, speaking out against misinformation being spread, and trying to portray Portugal in a more realistic way, something many other people online seem unwilling or incapable of doing. I couldn’t think of a better person to talk to about the topic I’m trying to explore. How is it to live in a digital nomad paradise without being one yourself? Is Portugal changing for the better, or for worse? And where do we go from now?

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: I first moved to Portugal in 2016 for a year, to focus on my writing and to experience life outside of work and university. After a few years of back and forth, I settled here permanently in 2019. Altogether, I spent four years in Lisbon, and I am now in my fourth year of living in the Algarve.

I moved to the Algarve mainly because of my boyfriend, who is Portuguese. We met in 2022, and until then, I had been living in Lisbon on my own.

I work for a Portuguese media group as an editor for the Czech market. I love my job here and I will never stop being grateful for it. It is my second job in Portugal—my first one was in an office in Lisbon.

I work remotely and often travel back to Czechia to spend time with my family. However, I rarely travel while working as a digital nomad, as it is simply not something I enjoy.

You’ve been in Portugal for a very long time now. In which ways have you seen the country change over the years?

The most noticeable change happened after Covid. I spent the pandemic in Lisbon, alone with just a couple of friends and flatmates around. Then, I went out one day, and suddenly there were a billion people and the prices of everything skyrocketed. The actual value of my already small salary was reduced to nothing, and I got a notice that the apartment I was living in would become an Airbnb again. Many of us were kicked out of our apartments or forced to move due to impossibly high rent increases.

I couldn’t find a place to live for a reasonable price anymore; the rent would eat my entire paycheck. Food doubled in price, foreigners overtook the city because I guess this same thing happened everywhere and people needed a cheaper place to live. Suddenly, Portuguese people disappeared from Lisbon and digital nomads took their place.

I am also noticing the weather is changing. It is going more into extremes, from droughts to heavy rains and cold winters.

Portugal also became trendy, and all of a sudden, everybody feels the need to be here. I find it ironic that people will complain about cities like Paris, London or Barcelona being overcrowded by tourism, yet when it comes to Portugal, many pretend it isn’t happening here.

We often hear that digital nomads are good for the economy. As someone who has a Portuguese job and family, have you noticed any improvement in the quality of life for regular people?

I think digital nomads can benefit the economy if they genuinely integrate and participate in the system.

Right now, there is a stricter policy for nomads that requires them to take part in the system, tax-wise, for example. Portugal no longer offers as many tax breaks as it did in the past so that will hopefully drive some improvement.

But in full honesty, I feel like digital nomads and foreigners from rich countries destroyed Lisbon in many ways, mainly for Portuguese people or any other immigrants living off Portuguese salaries. People cannot afford to pay rent and live in Lisbon anymore, and at the same time, you have a nomad telling you how cheap everything is. I haven’t really noticed any major changes or improvements that would benefit the local people. Cafés are opening left and right, but it’s very clear who the target customer is. Same with housing and development, most new development consists of hotels, Airbnbs, or luxury apartments

So in this sense, I don’t think the economy or the people prosper. But I know and have seen many people who want to stay in Portugal long-term, and they simply have to get into the system to achieve that; otherwise, there isn’t much you can do with your life in Portugal. It’s very hard to rent long-term without proper paperwork, for example.

What are the main aspects of life in Portugal you feel need to be “deinfluenced”?

The biggest myth is that Portugal is cheap. It might be cheap for people earning foreign salaries, but it is not cheap for people living on Portuguese wages.

It is extremely hard for families to survive here on Portuguese salaries. Kindergartens are very expensive, maternity leave is six months, people retire later (compared to Czechia), and of course, there has been an incredible increase in rents and property prices in the last five years.

Another myth is the constant sunshine. Portugal is increasingly experiencing extreme weather – long droughts, heavy rainfall and colder winters.

The surfing towns in Portugal are basically just villages of foreigners and digital nomads pretending to live the Portuguese life. You see lots of surfers, computers and people sitting in cafés that are definitely not Portuguese – where is Portugal in that? To be honest, I have no idea what the social media concept of “Portuguese life” actually is.

Portugal isn’t only about beaches and Lisbon or Porto. There are exceptional places inland – Alentejo or the north have so much to offer to those who want to experience the real Portugal, from food to the scenery of the countryside.

Lisbon is so overtaken by foreigners that finding the real Portugal there is hard these days.

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I often see you mention that foreign influencers living in Portugal are lying. What do you mean by that?

Many influencers present a very selective reality. They show surfing and sunshine while ignoring storms, floods, housing costs or the struggles people face living here.

The latest example that made me angry was an influencer posting herself and her husband surfing on a sunny day. On that same day, there was a hailstorm, it was forbidden to go into the ocean for several days, and people lost their homes due to flooding and landslides. She conveniently left that part out of her post.

Another influencer was posting about wanting to buy a “cheap” house in the Algarve, bragging how much cheaper it is than in Czechia. Knowing how much houses and rentals cost in both countries, I found it incredibly insulting. We’re talking prices around half a million euros or more, which is way out of reach for many people from the region.

Healthcare is another example. Even though Portugal has public healthcare through SNS, waiting times are often long, so many people end up paying for private doctors.

I have endometriosis and I went through many doctors and systems trying to find help in Portugal. Even though I am in the public healthcare system, I often have to go private to get results faster. That means either a lot of waiting or paying a lot of money.

Influencers with private insurance then claim the system is cheap and similar to Czechia, but that simply isn’t the case for most residents.

What do you consider to be the biggest problems Portugal is facing today?

From what I see, one of the biggest issues is the increasingly extreme weather. Portuguese housing is not prepared for harsher winters and heavy rainfall. Roofs leak, ceilings get soaked, and many homes have very little insulation, which makes them surprisingly cold in winter. At the same time, summers are getting hotter and hotter.

Another issue is the rise of far-right politics and populism. As in many other European countries, immigrants from the global south often become an easy scapegoat for deeper political or economic problems.

Personally, I have not experienced any problems connected to immigrants. The most disrespectful behavior I have seen actually came from other Westerners and people who treat Portugal as something they can take advantage of. Living in Lisbon, it was not unusual to see foreigners constantly complain about Portugal while benefiting greatly from living here.

Another major issue is salaries. Portuguese wages are still very low compared to the rest of Europe, while the cost of living is similar or sometimes even higher, especially in Lisbon. Because of this, many young and talented Portuguese people are leaving the country in search of better opportunities.

Finally, the national health care system (SNS) is under a lot of pressure. The conditions are difficult both for patients and medical professionals. It is understaffed, and the workload and stress for doctors, nurses, and other staff are extremely high. I have also heard stories about hospitals being merged and people not being able to access healthcare in time, which sometimes forces people to rely on expensive private insurance.

Do you think there’s an ethical way to move to Portugal as a remote worker in 2026?

Yes, but it requires responsibility. If someone wants to live here long-term, they should integrate into the system – register with Finanças, contribute taxes, get their SNS number and participate in the country like any other resident.

I’d also recommend taking Portugal-related advice from people who actually live here long-term, especially if you are planning to move here with a family. Skip all the influencer nonsense on social media.

Avoiding Airbnb and looking for long-term housing instead would also help.

Do you have any advice for people already in Portugal? What can they do or change to be more respectful and actually benefit the country?

Be honest about life here. Portugal has beautiful aspects, but it also has real challenges. It would benefit from being shown as it really is, beyond just Lisbon or beaches. There is no need to sell an unrealistic image just because it looks good on social media. If something looks too perfect online, it’s probably not the full reality.

And most importantly, do not abuse the system just because you technically can.

Portugal, and especially the Algarve where you’re based now, is also a popular tourist destination. How do you view tourism in the country/region in comparison to digital nomadism? Any tips for people planning a Portuguese vacation?

This is a good question, especially since influencers and digital nomads often complain about tourists, saying things like, “We would never go where tourists go.”

And I always think – what exactly are you then? You come here for three months, take photos on the same beaches with surfboards, how are you not a tourist? Also, traditional tourism actually supports local businesses much more consistently than the digital nomad lifestyle.

There are parts of Portugal that still need more tourism, and the tourism industry is extremely important for the Algarve especially. In fact, there is a real need for more visitors during the winter months. For people who have flexibility, I would recommend visiting in March or April. The Algarve and Alentejo can be incredibly beautiful outside the peak season.

Instead of blindly following influencers, do a bit of your own research. There are still travel writers and bloggers out there offering thoughtful recommendations.

It’s also good to know that August is when Portuguese people themselves go on holiday in the Algarve, so if possible, it is better to choose another time. And if you do visit in summer, please be respectful of the people who actually live here and still have to work.

Finally, try to support Portuguese businesses. Many digital nomad recommendations focus on places owned by foreigners, but local restaurants, cafés, and bars are the places that truly reflect the country. Sometimes it is worth simply walking around and discovering things without constantly checking your phone. If you follow the Portuguese language, you will usually find more authentic local places.

I personally still struggle with Portuguese, but I am quite sure it can be frustrating for locals if foreigners don’t make even a small effort to learn the language.

some numbers and thoughts to end on…

In 2026, the minimum wage in Portugal is €920, while the average Portuguese monthly salary is around 1500 EUR. From that, residents have to pay social security, as well as a progressive income tax.

Compare that to the D8 digital nomad visa, which requires applicants to have an income of 4x the Portuguese minimum wage, currently around 3,600 EUR per month. Until 2024, beneficiaries of this visa weren’t required to pay any taxes or contributions in Portugal whatsoever. This income gap is incredible, and it grants highly advantaged individuals access to the infrastructure and resources financed by taxpayers without contributing much back to the country besides the occasional restaurant bill.

Is it really good for the economy when all the country’s highest earners have no skin in the game long-term?

The country seems to be finally waking up and saying no. The famous digital nomad tax break (NHR) ended in 2025. It got, however, replaced by another, slightly less outrageous tax break for which many digital nomad professions still qualify. The infamous Golden Visa, a popular pathway to EU citizenship for exceptionally rich individuals, has also been reworked in recent years, with the option to invest in a property in exchange for residency being removed. But is it enough to reverse the damage? Only time will tell.

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Read more:

• about the expat/immigrant duality by a Portuguese migrant

• Aneta's digital nomad story

• my gentrification essay

All unpacked content is free, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work: give the post a like ❤️ , share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or consider buying me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

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Thank you for being here <3

fialka

“La Nevera”, or “The Fridge” is a nickname Colombians use for their capital city, Bogotá. The name refers to the city’s cold, high-altitude climate, but also the fact that Bogotá “feeds” everyone who comes there, be it to work or to visit. The term captures more than the chill, it speaks to opportunity, good food, and the hospitality that defines the capital.

Another sunny morning at 2,640 meters above sea level.

I sometimes joke that “sunny Bogotá” is an oxymoron, but truth be told, the sun is out and shining on most mornings. The rains don’t typically hit until later in the day, but then again, that’s more of an irregular pattern than a rule. In this city, weather forecasts serve as nothing more but a vague recommendation, and one needs at least three layers of clothing and an umbrella at all times.

First things first, coffee. This habit of mine doesn’t really change much when I step on Colombian soil; it only gets more delicious. Sometimes I have a little arepa for breakfast, too, but I’ve been trying to cut down on the amount of food I eat here, as every single visit to the Tierrita so far has resulted in several kgs of weight gain.

It’s not even 6 AM but the day is already in full swing. Days here start early in general, but ours start even earlier. Because of the Bogota-Prague time difference, our 9-to-5 begins at 3 AM Colombian time. This “small” inconvenience causes my fiancé and me to be exhausted for most of our stay, making it harder to make plans and enjoy life. Alas, that’s the price we pay for being able to be here at all.

Some people who have never set foot in Bogotá would have you believe it is a cold, hostile place riddled with crime, violence, and poverty. Those who have visited sometimes aren’t the biggest fans either, often recommending other travelers to skip the capital entirely and go straight to warmer, more vibey parts of the country. My first visit sort of left me with that impression as well, but this is my fourth rodeo already and I know better now.

Over the years of coming here to visit my in-laws, I’ve spent so much time in the Colombian capital that it feels less like an exotic destination and more like a chaotic second home. The novelty has fully worn off, and I’ve grown to accept and appreciate the city for what it is, with all its quirks and challenges.

These days, I believe that to understand Colombia, one must at least attempt to understand Bogotá, too.

The Fridge is indeed a bit difficult to love, but not for the reasons you would probably imagine. Yes, safety can be an issue, or at least something that always lingers in the back of your mind—no need to sugarcoat that. But your biggest enemy here isn’t gangs or thieves or cartel wars; it’s traffic. You can’t talk about Bogotá without mentioning the elephant on the road.

There is almost no public transit in this city of eight million people besides an iconic bus network called TransMilenio. This causes the roads of Bogotá to be permanently and hopelessly congested, earning the capital a rank among cities with the worst traffic in the world.

There’s still hope—a skytrain is now finally under construction, promising to improve the daily commutes of thousands of Bogotans. For the time being, however, the city relies on peculiar makeshift remedies.

One such band-aid solution is pico y placa, a rule that limits which cars can be on the road each day of the week. This was done in the name of reducing traffic, but it only ended up disproportionately punishing poor people (an unfortunately common pattern in Colombia), as everyone who could afford it just bought a second vehicle to, you know, get places.

As of now, you can also bypass the rule completely by purchasing a permit.

There’s also ciclovía—every Sunday, certain roads become pedestrian and bike-only. You can go cycling, running, walking or skating through the city, and the vibes are high for those joining in. On the other hand, for those who just need to get from point A to point B, it becomes a logistical nightmare. On top of everything else, random protests blocking the roads aren’t uncommon and are likely to affect your daily commute from time to time as well.

The city is ruled by cars, and life in Bogotá is inevitably dictated by traffic in ways I’ve never had to consider before. The same ride can take anywhere between 15 minutes and an hour, and being on time feels like winning the lottery. If possible, you leave the house at odd hours and then rush back home to beat the traffic. If you’re going for an out-of-town trip, you need to carefully time your departure and arrival so that your car is allowed on the road once you enter the city. Sometimes you need to take an Uber regardless because your car has the wrong plate number. How does that help with the congestion? I don’t know.

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In this environment, it’s nearly impossible to maintain a schedule full of activities, so my days in the capital are quite slow and monotonous. Mornings are for working (or writing, now that I’m unemployed), with an occasional visit to the local bakery or cafe to spice things up. Afternoons belong to exploring and actually doing stuff, if weather and energy levels allow. Evenings are often spent playing board games or going to the movies with family. Any more exciting plans like trips, hikes, or social events must be squeezed into the weekend, as that’s when we have more time and sleep.

I say “we” because as soon as I touch down at El Dorado Airport, my independence vanishes, and I proceed to spend every single waking minute practically glued to my man until I leave again. I’m not proud to admit that, but that’s how all my visits to Colombia have been so far.

Saying that it’s for safety reasons might be partially true, yet still a massive cop out. Many solo female travelers visit Colombia and Bogotá (including my own sister); it’s completely doable and normal. Moving around the city requires a higher degree of alertness and street smarts, sure, but it’s not as unsafe and destitute as some would have you believe, especially if you sort of know the city as I do now.

Normally, I’m more than happy to do my own thing when traveling, but for some reason, this place and its difficult logistics discourage me from solo exploration and make me crave company. I’m neither a tourist nor a local here; I have no friends or errands or places to be, and this strange space I occupy is hard to navigate at times. But hey, at least I genuinely enjoy the presence of my significant other and his family, and I rarely feel lonely or bored here.

Bogotá is not many travelers’ favorite place, and it’s easy to see why, especially when people arrive here expecting a laid-back tropical vacation. But the way I see it, the capital is, more than anything else, misunderstood. Its chaos isn’t flashy and colorful like Cartagena’s, nor is the vibe as seductive and intoxicating as in Medellín. The city can feel heavy at times, bearing the weight of all its importance.

But here’s the thing—the capital doesn’t owe anyone sunshine or entertainment. It’s not a resort; the purpose of this city is to run the country and, like a little fridge, feed its eight million people. It can test your patience or sanity, and its charm is less obvious to those who never spend longer than one night here. But for all its worth, it’s a second home right now, imperfect and misunderstood, perhaps—but no longer by me.

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If you’re interested in Colombia, you might enjoy the following read:

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We’re open for submissions! If you’d like to suggest a cool destination or contribute an entry as a guest writer, send me a DM or an email!

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Today’s niche bucketlist is brought to you by Emily! For the first time ever taking the series to Oceania, let’s learn about Emily’s favorite niche destination!

Hi! I’m Emily, a Master’s student born and raised in the island of Bali, Indonesia, but currently living in New Zealand. Having always dreamed of studying abroad, New Zealand was a top pick for its mesmerizing landscapes - its relative proximity to my home country also played a part. While racking my brain for a niche bucket list destination, my mind wandered for days until I realized the answer was right in front of me all along - the first overseas city I called home! Living and studying in Dunedin is one of the core chapters of my life so far.

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what & where

New Zealand is divided into two islands: North and South. Dunedin is the second most populated city in the South Island after Christchurch, with a population of 132,800 as of June 2025. It’s also considered a student city as it’s home to the region’s university, the University of Otago (my alma mater!).

Dunedin is known for its rich Scottish heritage - its name is derived from Dùn Èideann, the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh, and walking around the town, you’ll get to see beautiful Victorian and Edwardian architecture. Its Māori name is Ōtepoti and its main tribe is Kāi Tahu, the largest iwi (tribe) in the South Island.

Located right by the Otago peninsula, it’s also home to seabirds, sea lions, and penguins, a reason why it’s considered the wildlife capital of New Zealand. Below are some things that make Dunedin a spot worth visiting.

wildlife capital of new zealand

Have you ever wanted to see the world’s smallest penguins? Tour operators like Blue Penguins Pukekura offer you the chance to see these tiny penguins (Kororā) from up close, and you can see seals and sea lions as well!

Tours are held at dusk when the penguins return from a day at sea, heading towards their burrows. Embarking on wildlife cruises like those offered by Monarch also gives you the opportunity to get personal with the creatures that inhabit the Southern Ocean, like the royal albatross and fur seals.

world’s steepest street

Baldwin Street, a street in the suburb of North East Valley, was crowned the steepest street in the world in 1987 by Guinness World Records. It has a gradient of 34.8% and lost its title shortly in 2019 to Wales’s Ffordd Pen Llech, gaining it back in 2020.

Although I visited once, I didn’t climb all the way to the top due to my admittedly weak stamina, and you can see why it holds this title - it almost looked like a vertical wall. You’ll find a souvenir shop at the foot of the street too, and one day I hope it sells t-shirts saying ‘I survived Baldwin Street’.

victorian architecture

The Clock Tower at the University of Otago is a famous Gothic Revival landmark representing New Zealand’s first university, which was established in 1874. The Clock Tower, dating from 1878, features an early use of local basalt stone on a large scale, highlighting the value of higher leaning placed in Otago. Today, the interior has undergone many changes, and along with other buildings like the school’s Chemistry Building, it represents Dunedin’s period of excellence and prosperity.

Larnach Castle is another Gothic Revival masterpiece, built in 1871 by William Larnach for his first wife Eliza. It’s New Zealand’s only castle, and is now privately owned and cared for by the Barker family who purchased it in 1967. The castle walls hold many scandalous and tragic stories, one of them being the suicide of William Larnach in 1898 due to a series of personal and financial complications. With that aside, its spectacular tower views and Garden of International Significance make it a must-visit.

how to get there & around

Dunedin’s airport put a pause on international flights during COVID-19, but these returned last year (if you’re in Gold Coast, Australia). Otherwise, you’ll have to make a pit stop at one of the three main international airports in New Zealand—Auckland, Wellington, or Christchurch—before hopping on a domestic flight to Dunedin, which usually takes one hour. Despite being named Dunedin Airport, the airport is 30 minutes away from Dunedin itself, so you’ll need to book a shuttle in advance through providers like SuperShuttle to get to the city. Taxis are also available, but these are usually more expensive.

Once you’re in Dunedin, there are multiple ways to get around, like walking, taxi/Uber, or using the bus. Orbus is the public transport system in Dunedin, and you can buy a card for $5 from bus drivers or regional council offices, with a minimum top-up fee of $5. You can also rent a car if you’re comfortable driving on the left side of the road.

Some activities outlined above, like visiting the University or Baldwin Street, can be accessed by public transport, but for other activities that take place further out of the city like seeing the world’s smallest penguins, a taxi may be needed, depending on where you’re staying. There are plenty of accommodation options in the city, like hotels and motels: the Victoria Hotel is located right in the heart of town, and if you’re up for a thrill, stay at the reportedly haunted Leviathan Hotel built in 1884.

what else to know

• If you’re a fan of beaches like I am, here are some of Dunedin’s finest: Tunnel Beach, St. Clair Beach, Tomahawk Beach, and Second Beach. If you’re lucky, you can spot sea lions around!

• Have you heard of the Wellerman sea shanty? This folk song made the rounds on Tiktok in early 2021, and surprisingly, its origins can be traced back to the Weller brothers, who established a whaling station at Otago Heads near modern-day Dunedin in 1831.

• Visiting Dunedin in spring or summer is recommended if you’re not good with the cold. Plus, students are mostly away for the summer, and the city is quieter and peaceful.

• In the winter, you can spot the Southern Lights in Dunedin! It’s best to visit beaches and areas away from the city where there are no lights, like Second Beach.

a little digital snail mail

letters from near and far

By emily 🐚

In case you missed the previous niche bucketlist entry, check it out below →

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The article, which was later picked up by many news outlets worldwide, tells the story of two foreign hikers who were recommended a place called “Sacred Canyon of Humantay” in the Peruvian Andes by a chatbot. The problem is that the place doesn’t exist and was likely the result of an AI hallucination combining two different geographical labels from the region into one. Luckily, an experienced local guide stumbled upon the situation and saved the tourists from their potentially life-threatening hike to nowhere.

Now, here’s where I might be a little old school, unc, whatever you want to call it. Though I’ve definitely used AI for travel-related tasks, I would never consider blindly trusting an LLM (large language model AI, like ChatGPT, Gemini, Grok, etc.) when researching literally anything, let alone a high altitude hike in a foreign country. I have little sympathy for anyone who follows advice from a robot without ever questioning it.

I think what we have here is more of a “perils of not verifying your information” situation. What happened to not trusting everything we read on the internet?

Artificial intelligence is designed to resemble human intelligence, and since human-generated information isn’t always accurate, AI, too, is bound to not get everything 100% right all the time. Sure, it’s getting smarter by the minute, but I still can’t see a world in which I ask an LLM a question and take the answer as truth without any further investigation.

With that in mind, the more I thought about the original article, the more I started to feel like the story about the Sacred Canyon of Humantay might not be entirely real either. It’s a rather strange coincidence that a couple of unaccompanied travelers would pay $160 to get to a fictional trail they hadn’t even bothered to check on the map beforehand, plus their chatter being randomly overheard by a guide who likes to provide news with comments about tourism and AI.

While I absolutely believe AI would make the place up, the story of what happened seems to me like a clever business move by Sr Gongora Meza, founder and director of Evolution Treks Peru, and/or a little sprinkle of journalistic sensationalism.

But hey, I might be totally wrong too. I’m just a girl with a Substack, you see.

I did, however, take some steps to verify or disprove my theory. I started by googling the fictional location in both English and Spanish, since the story hails from Peru. After finding no clarifying information, I asked AI to search the web for any mentions of the nonexistent canyon that would predate the BBC article.

When I was certain that BBC broke the story first, I still wasn’t quite satisfied, so I reached out to the journalist who wrote the article. She confirmed it was based on Mr Meza’s first-hand experience and local expertise, and that no additional proof was provided to corroborate the story.

Anti-climactic result? Kind of. Unemployed behavior? Perhaps, but this whole digging process only took about 15 minutes. It doesn’t matter if the story was real in the end. The lesson is that if I can do all that, there is no excuse for you not to research your damn hike.

perils of zero curiosity

There were multiple supporting anecdotes in the article, one of them describing someone stranded on the top of the mountain in Japan because the ropeway had stopped operating earlier than what AI suggested. This situation is definitely more believable—and also easy to avoid by doublechecking the closing time at the official website or at the station upon arrival. Another was a story of a Malaysian couple driving for three hours to find nothing after seeing an AI-generated TikTok. The solution was in the story itself—the video was properly labeled to begin with—but even if it wasn’t, some follow-up research would prevent disappointment as well.

Again, I’d argue that these are human errors, not technological ones. An IT person would describe the problem as being somewhere between the chair and the keyboard. A Gen-Zer would call it a skill issue.

In any case, in life, and especially when we travel, things inevitably don’t always go as planned. Mistakes will happen, no matter if they stem from human or artificial intelligence. The outrage currently directed at AI would be better aimed at users incapable or unwilling to apply basic judgment and common sense.

the ethical question

It is a known fact that AI burns a lot of energy, with a single ChatGPT query estimated to consume 10-20x more energy compared to searching the same thing on Google. And that’s a huge problem, but I don’t believe that completely swearing off all things artificially intelligent is the solution. Instead, I advocate for mindful and intentional use without offsetting our mental loads wholly to the robot.

Although “AI-powered features” are slowly creeping into every online tool, including Google itself, which might blur the lines between AI and “the internet” in the future, I believe we shouldn’t use ChatGPT like a regular search engine or a phone-a-friend who has answers to everything. If I have a vague question or one with a yes or no answer, I’m going to search for it the old way and reserve LLMs for areas where they can actually make a difference. Likewise, if I want to know the weather forecast for the next week, I’ll just check my weather app. Some people have grown way too comfortable with consulting every single little question with their personal chatbot, but there are many cases where using AI is redundant or not accurate enough.

Running AI is also, as mentioned above, energetically costly—and that energy isn’t free. I don’t know how likely the general public is to retain free access to AI models as we know it; the money needs to be made somewhere. The free version of ChatGPT has already been nerfed, limiting users to a few queries per day and dumbing the answers down once the limit is reached. Hilariously, it’s also apparently about to start running ads. Paywalls, advertisements, and gradual enshittification may be the savior that stops us from AI overuse way before we manage to stop ourselves, but only time will tell.

The way I see it, humanity has already bet everything on artificial intelligence. Whether we like or dislike it, AI is here to stay, and we should adapt to the tools we have at our disposal. To bring AI’s many costs down in a sustainable way, we paradoxically need to learn how to use these systems more efficiently and optimize our interactions with them.

how can you actually leverage AI for traveling?

Here are a few cases in which I found using AI helpful and justified when it comes to travel. Of course, this is not an exhaustive list by any means, just a few ideas for inspiration.

1. Quick information aggregation. Or, in other words, efficient research. Instead of going through a million different online searches, instructing AI with a single detailed prompt to do it for you can be extremely helpful. Don’t let this be your only form of research though; think of it more as creating a library of sources to get you started.

2. Personalized recommendations. My recent holiday in Türkiye was actually partially based on an AI suggestion. Having never visited before, I wanted to check the country out, but only had a very rough idea of what to do there. I explained my interests and preferences to the chatbot and asked it to suggest specific places in Türkiye I’d enjoy. The suggestion happened to align with a region we were already considering, but I still got some useful recommendations for what I might want to do and see that helped me plan our exact route.

3. Troubleshooting. Last year in Taiwan, I managed to get my transport card blocked, and the only advice I could find anywhere was “unblock it at the metro station”. The problem? I was in the south of the island, nowhere near a metro or a train station. Consulting with ChatGPT gave me an idea of what happened and what my options were so that I could later ask for help at the right places IRL.

4. Finding localized tips. In my opinion, this is one of the best use cases for AI in travel planning. Finding truly local info and opinions online is hard when you don’t speak the language and don’t know what keywords to search for. AI successfully erases much of this barrier, as you can instruct the model to search through country-specific websites or forums and then present its findings back to you in your own language. Of course, verifying foreign language info is a bit more difficult, but you are still getting information you might not have had access to otherwise.

There are probably many more ways in which artificial intelligence could make our travels easier and help us plan our trips smarter. In any case, if you are going the AI route, I’d encourage you to use it mindfully and in tandem with common sense, not instead of it.

AI as a travel agent

A good example of misplaced expectation is a video I saw from a self-described Costa Rica expert, who set out to prove that AI can’t replace a human travel agent by letting ChatGPT plan a seven-day itinerary. She introduced herself as an American who has been visiting Costa Rica for years and prides herself on collaborating with locally owned businesses.

On a surface level, I’m with her. I’m all for giving my money to people and small businesses instead of megacorporation-owned robots. However, in my humble opinion, all this experiment did was accidentally expose something interesting in the process.

Her grievances boiled down to the following:

• AI suggested too many destinations in one week; it was too much moving around. She would handle the time management of the trip better.

• AI didn’t provide exhaustive lists of things to do in each destination.

• Some of the hotel suggestions were off in terms of budget or distance from the destination.

However…

• How fast or slow you want to move is a matter of personal preference, and something an AI can accommodate if you specify it clearly in your prompt.

• The AI gave her a solid few activity options for every destination, none of which were wrong per se. If you want a full list of attractions, you can specify that. It’s not some secret knowledge only a travel agent has access to.

• From my experience, yes, AI is not the best at giving accommodation or restaurant suggestions. Getting OK results requires somewhat advanced prompting techniques, and I would still much rather trust a human’s judgement. But again, it is all still public information.

All in all, adjusting the original prompt (which she did not show, so we won’t ever find out how much effort she actually put into it) would improve the overall experience greatly and could substitute this particular woman’s “know-how” in many areas, albeit not completely. In an effort to showcase her irreplacability, she instead exposed that all we need to do is ask the right questions and take time to verify the answers.

Of course, if what you want is hands-off relaxation with someone to optimize routes, call hotels, and troubleshoot when plans fall apart for you, then paying a travel agent still makes perfect sense.

But if you’re willing to put in some work, AI tools don’t replace the middleman so much as expose them. The information has always been public; the difference is whether you’re willing to engage with it. Used thoughtfully, AI can make you a more informed traveler.

Used lazily, it just gives you an abstract entity to blame when things go wrong.

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I’m well aware that I played Australia on extra hard mode and got to experience one of the shittiest versions of living down under. I arrived in the beginning stages of the pandemic, got stuck in lockdown in Perth, unable to move around and meet people due to restrictions and border closures. Later on, I struggled to find and keep jobs, and got into a toxic relationship with a drug dealer (that part is completely on me).

If you decide to do a working holiday in Australia now, it probably won’t be this intense.

But, similar to work exchanges, there are enough people online painting Australia as the best place in the entire world and an easily achievable way to solve all problems one might have. I’m not in the business of invalidating anyone’s experience just because it was different from mine.

I’m here to showcase the nuance of Australian living and point out the parts that don’t get talked about enough. Stuff that someone who’s considering the move might want to hear before touching down in ‘Straya, mate.

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For full disclosure, much of this article is based on my own experience and observations. I ended up living in Perth for a bit over a year, and spent some time in Sydney towards the end of my stay as restrictions loosened. I have visited some other parts of the country previously as a tourist, but please beware that I have a huge Perth bias. That being said, I do believe that most of the country is more similar to Perth than to real cities like Sydney or Melbourne.

you can make money, but…

…it’s not as easy as it seems

One of the reasons I took the leap was the promise of big money. And I know for a fact that I’m not alone in that sentiment. So yes, the wages are higher than in most places. Yes, I made more hourly as a waitress than I did in a white-collar job in Prague. But unless you’re a very specific type of person, the money won’t come that easily.

Now, this might not apply if you’re coming over on a different visa or with a particular skill. But as a regular working holiday maker, your employment options are down to a few: hospitality, childcare, any sort of manual labor, farming. If you want to extend your visa, farm or regional work can’t be avoided, although the rules have been somewhat relaxed in recent years.

I never tried to do my 88 days to begin with, but the testimonies from people I’ve met vary a lot. I knew a girl who made $30 per row on a strawberry farm (which is illegal but still common), as well as someone who was able to save a small fortune by working with solar panels for 50 per hour with free accommodation.

But here’s the catch: “free accommodation” usually means “living in the middle of nowhere”, so while working these regional jobs, you’ll have no life outside of work. Same with the coveted FIFO (fly-in-fly-out, usually mining or oil) jobs—while on site, the outside world might as well not exist, definitely not the work-life balance people move to Australia for. Unlike strawberry picking, these positions are also highly sought after among Aussies, so there’s tons of competition.

Most of my IRL work in Aus was as a waitress, and although I don’t mind waiting tables, it wasn’t the cute little café job social media would promise you.

What made my work unbearable at times were the venue owners and managers who thought it was OK to treat foreign workers like disposable trash. Also, unlike back home, where hospitality jobs usually train you, in Aus you need to come prepared. Forget being a barista unless you’re already a latte art pro, or a bartender if you don’t have extensive cocktail experience. And no, nobody cares whether you were a Senior Tech Operations Manager back in your home country (I wasn’t, but still.)

Another thing I struggled with constantly was getting enough work to make a living. Working on a casual contract—and most jobs available to backpackers are casual—means a higher hourly wage but no benefits or hours/income guarantee. Your boss can easily cancel on you last minute or send you home whenever business is slow.

People then have to juggle two or three jobs to secure enough hours and make a full-time-ish wage. To me, that was extremely stressful, and the constant income insecurity wasn’t really conducive to living my best Aussie life.

the beaches are nice, but…

…are you a millionaire?

I might have gotten unlucky, but even in Perth, I could only dream of living anywhere near the beach. In reality, I was probably at least an hour away from the closest beach at all times (thanks, urban sprawl), going there was a full-day endeavour, and the days I actually spent on the beach ended up totaling to a surprisingly low number.

I keep seeing content from people coming to Australia with no job, no connections, and moving into houses in Bondi or Cottesloe in the midst of a housing crisis (which has only gotten worse since I left Australia). I’m always baffled as to how they managed to be selected for those places and how they pay for them.

The beach life portrayed on socials is not the typical Aussie life. It’s an aesthetic reserved for those who can afford to sustain it. As a regular person, you’re far more likely to be living in a shitty cul-de-sac than the beachfront.

From my experience, the beach is also something foreigners enjoy way more than most born and bred Aussies. If you’d like to know why, I recommend a glance at one of the shark report sites.

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aussies are laid back, but…

…do you know any?

As a white blonde Slavic woman, I never experienced much prejudice out in the world, at least not in an overt way. That was, until I came to Australia. Too white to be considered an immigrant and too different to be a “backpacker” (in Australia, WHV holders are collectively referred to as backpackers, and yes, it’s slightly pejorative), I must have come for a secret third reason. It was implied to me several times that the reason was believed to be sex work. Sigh.

However, that’s still nothing compared to how people of color, including large portions of the continent’s original inhabitants, are treated by both individuals and the system as a whole.

Why are these issues not discussed more in the WHV community? Most backpackers exist almost exclusively within their own bubbles, only ever interacting with actual Australians by pure chance. They work immigrant-dominated jobs, live together in hostels and sharehouses, and make friends with people from their own countries.

My experience ended up being the complete opposite. The pandemic locked me indoors, so I didn’t get to mingle with other backpackers much. My subsequent relationship then led me to spend most of my time around Perth locals.

Sure, living in a traphouse with a bunch of more or less criminally active highschool dropouts was a choice I only have myself to blame for, and expecting those people to be the beacons of progressive ideals would be foolish. But the amount of ignorance, xenophobia, conspiracy theories, and sometimes just sheer stupidity I got to witness definitely skewed my view of the “chilled-out Aussie” stereotype.

The country is often praised as the antidote to hustle culture, a place where everyone can make money easily, have a work-life balance, and where people don’t live for their jobs. That part is true, and, especially if you’re coming from a place of corporate burnout, it’s refreshing—until you realize what the other side of that coin looks like.

The way I see it, Australia is a place that largely doesn’t value education. Why go to school when you can go to the mines and make absolute bank? Also synonymous with the country is the “tall poppy syndrome”, where exceptional individuals are “cut down to size” by a system that promotes conformity and not trying too hard.

The result? People have houses, cars, boats and jetskis but lack knowledge about the outside world or the ability to move a conversation beyond small talk. Of course, there are also wonderful, brilliant, tolerant Aussies. But they are unfortunately living in a place that fails to reward that.

the lifestyle is different, but…

…is it for you?

The life you want to live is a matter of personal preference, but living in Australia only made me realize how cartoonishly European I actually am.

When I first arrived in Perth, I went for a walk around the CBD and knew immediately that place wasn’t for me. Despite it being a regular workday, the streets of what’s supposed to be the city center were totally empty. I felt like I had entered a simulation.

The entire day shifts forward the moment you step on Australian soil. At 6 AM, people are already out and about. At 2-3 PM, cafés close. At 5 PM, most stores, supermarkets, and even big malls close. At 7 PM, the day is over, and there’s nothing left to do besides drinking—but not until too late, of course. In Perth at least, there’s also a lack of cultural events and in the winter, the entire city pretty much goes to sleep.

Car dependency was another huge issue for me, because, uh, I don’t drive. Unless you live in one of the more happening areas, you need a car to buy groceries, get to work, go to the beach, or do anything at all. The public transport that does exist then oftentimes feels a bit unsafe.

After moving into the suburbs with my ex, car dependency became partner dependency, something I never meant to sign up for.

The Australian lifestyle is ideal for many people; there’s no doubt about that. But it isn’t for everyone—and it wasn’t for me.

the weather is sunny, but…

…enjoy at your own risk

Warm weather is one of the main pulls of Australia, especially for us Europeans used to dark skies and icy winters. But warmer doesn’t necessarily mean better. If you’re not too concerned about climate change already, I’d recommend spending some time in Oz and really letting the doom kick in.

Australian weather can only be described as extreme. While the winters are mild (more about that in a sec), the summers are beyond scorching hot in most parts of the country. My Christmas Day in Perth was 42°C, go a bit further up north and it gets closer to 50. Not only do these temperatures make outdoor activities near impossible, they also cause the increasingly common bushfires. I’ve experienced ash falling from the sky as the house I was living in stood just outside the mandatory evacuation area.

Mild winters, like in many other parts of the world, mean absolutely no cold management. No central heating, no house insulation. The temperatures dropped as low as 4°C in Perth in the winter, and all I had to keep warm was one crappy electric heater that wasn’t cutting it.

To add to the list, the Australian sun is also infamously responsible for lots of skin cancer (Australia has the highest rate in the world), and shouldn’t be taken lightly.

small beach towns are cute, but…

… you better not need anything

“The cities are no good”, people will say. “You have to get out to the countryside to experience the real Australia!”

Living like Youngbloods in a small remote beach town sounds like THE ultimate Aussie dream—until you have a medical emergency.

People underestimate the sheer remoteness of the Australian outback and the lack of access to literally anything, from transport to medical care to things like gyms or hairdressers. It’s paradise on earth, as long as you’re willing to live a very basic life, are healthy, and don’t need anything in particular. Oh, and you also better have a lot of money. Supplying these remote places by road trains ain’t cheap.

Speaking of medical care, unless you’re British, you’re not eligible for Australian Medicare as a WHV holder. You need travel insurance to get your visa approved, but that usually only covers bills over a certain amount or emergencies. Every trip to the doctor, I had to pay out of pocket and never saw any of that money back, adding a layer of medical anxiety on top of everything I described above.

Most of us carry some kind of pandemic-related trauma, and Australia happens to be mine.

The country still has a special place in my heart and I would absolutely revisit one day. It has a kind of magic that pulls you in and stays with you long after you leave. I don’t regret moving there or riding out the pandemic in Perth, and I’ll always be grateful for the memories I managed to make. To be honest, I’ve never felt as young and free as I did during that year.

At the same time though, it’s not a place I’d ever want to call home again. Maybe everything I went through tainted my vision forever. Maybe I’m too European, too much of a city girl, not meant to be living a life so different from my default. I may be just a hater, bitter for not getting the chance to live the Australian dream to the fullest. Living in Australia was an experience I’m glad I had, but one I have no desire to repeat.

And if you’re toying with the idea of a working holiday down under yourself, at least now you know what you might find there besides sun and spiders.

And in case that’s what you’re still waiting to hear about—the spiders weren’t even that bad.

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If you enjoy me shitting on popular things, you might like this one →

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But before we jump in, some housekeeping →

I have now, for the most part, run out of niche places that would be a good fit and to keep the integrity of the series intact, the niche bucketlist will now be coming out only every so often—whenever I gain a new obsession or when a guest writer decides to kindly contribute theirs.

That being said, today’s edition is brought to you by Lila from ! So, without further ado, let’s learn about her favorite niche destination!

Hi, I’m Lila and I’m a Londoner who ended up moving to the tropics. I write about travel, memory and the myths that shape us. Whilst I am based in Bali, I love to encourage travellers to discover more of the Indonesian archipelago. There are over 17,000 islands in Indonesia!

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I first heard of Rote island through surf friends, going all gooey-eyed recounting tales of empty long waves and vast open skies. I’d lived in Indonesia for over 2 years before making my way there. It was absolutely worth it, and not just for the surf.

what & where

Flying east from Bali, there is a long chain of islands known as the Lesser Sundas. West Timor is the last of them, and just off its coast lies Rote.

Only around 500 km from Australia, Rote is far drier than most of Indonesia with a tropical savannah climate, rolling hills, and forests of drought resistant Lontar Palms & Acacia.

Like many Indonesian islands, the remoteness of the location belies the number of outside cultures that have passed through over the centuries.

The first written records suggest the Rotenese may have originally migrated from Maluku, far to the north in the Banda Sea, during the 13th-16th century reign of the Hindu Javanese Majapahit kingdom. It later fell under the Muslim Mataram Sultanate, before becoming a site of Portuguese Dominican missionary activity, then a Dutch colony, and finally part of the Indonesian Republic in 1950.

Today, the island’s population of around 150,000 is predominantly Christian, with Portuguese and Dutch legacies blending with local animist beliefs to create a distinct religious culture.

Rote historically had a strong education system, meaning the Rotenese, although few in number, are often found throughout Indonesia in civil and administrative roles.

Whilst many Rotenese leave for work, an increasing number now arrive from the opposite direction: travellers drawn by largely untouched beaches, and some of the best waves in Indonesia.

Today, tourism infrastructure is focused around Nemberala on the south of Rote, as this is where the waves are.

why visit

surfing

Most visitors to Rote are there for the surf, and you can meet many eclectic characters who will tell you tales of surfing Indonesia in the 60s whilst battling malaria, who have ended up in Rote to escape the crowds.

There is surf for all levels. For beginners, there are a couple of surf schools in town that can take you to Squealers, a gentle spot breaking in a wide sandy bay. If you are a beginner, then shoulder season (April - May and September - October) is likely better for you as the waves will be smaller and less crowded.

For intermediates and above, the famous T-Land calls, alongside a plethora of other spots to suit different abilities and conditions. There’s also a decent selection of board rentals available in town.

experience a unique version of Indonesian island life

Imagine driving for an hour and seeing barely anyone but goats, wild ponies and endless white beaches? And one giant church shaped like Noah’s Ark. As you pass through villages you will see more churches, the odd mosque, and women weaving Ikat — a textile tradition that existed long before Christianity or Islam arrived.

No smoothie bowls, no beach clubs. Although if there is a wedding nearby during your stay, expect to hear the celebrations going all night.

Exploring Rote reminded me of when I first went backpacking over 10 years ago. You get talking to everyone in the cafes, locals all want to say hi and you have no desire to check your messages. Although there may be a lot of anxious refreshing of surf forecasts.

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kayak through mangroves to a tidal lake

Picture a huge white sand beach shaped like a spoon stretching into the interior of a tropical island. Then picture it slowly filling and emptying with water with the tides. Then dial up the colour contrast x100. This might bring you close to imagining Telaga Nirwana, a tidal lake towards the southmost tip of Rote.

Kayaking through the mangroves and into Telaga Nirwana lake was one of our highlights. You paddle in from a tiny village besides the ocean, and into another world — passing under limestone overhangs and weaving between mangrove trunks. While it’s possible to visit by speedboat, their size prevents access to many of the smaller channels. By kayak, you’ll be able to explore all the nooks and crannies of this surreal landscape almost completely alone.

To organize this, message Mic at Rote Tours: +62 (0)81 338 611623

boat trips

For those keen to explore the waters more, there are many jaw-dropping fishing and snorkelling excursions available. You can also visit Do’o, a tiny isle of white sand, or the bigger Dao, whose inhabitants are known for creating jewellery from old Dutch coins, melted down and recast as rings or bracelets.

It’s also possible to take a boat to the southernmost point of Asia. It’s not every day you have the chance to stand on the very edge of a continent!

how to get there & around

Firstly get yourself to Indonesia, either Bali or Jakarta. Then it’s a 2 hour flight to the capital of West Timor, Kupang.

Once you get to Kupang, you have 2 options.

1. Short flight, currently run by Wings several times a week. If you’re travelling with a surfboard, check the latest baggage rules and assume you’ll be paying extra fees on each leg. The flight takes approx 20 mins.

2. Bahari fast ferry, which runs daily. This also makes bringing surfboards easy. The journey takes around 2 hours and the AC will be fierce on board.

Getting around the island

There‘s no Gojeks or Grab here and you’ll need to be confident on a scooter to get around. Don’t take the empty roads for granted safety-wise, steep, loose rocky sections appear frequently, as do goats and ponies crossing at will! If you stay in central Nemberala you should be fine, but if you want to head out further ask your accommodation for a taxi.

Accommodation

Despite Rote’s remoteness, there’s a lovely selection of accommodation, from simple digs to some stunning high-end properties such as Seed Resort. Most are on booking.com, but I recommend doing what we did: clicking around on Google Maps to see what suits you and finding their website to book directly. As there’s not that much choice, this shouldn’t be too overwhelming.

This is how I found where we stayed, Villa Santai, who were too old-school to be on a booking platform but offered some of the best priced Nemberala beach front rooms.

what else to know

• Depending on flight connections, it’s likely you’ll stay a night in Kupang. If so, I recommend staying at the Aston Kupang, and then walking across the road to Taman Laut Restaurant for delicious seafood and a chance to try the local speciality of smoked beef

• I recommend pre-booking your Rote accommodation, this brings the added benefit that your host can help smooth your transfers

• If you take your surfboards on the ferry, and a porter asks for a tip, give them 50k (the equivalent of €2.50). Or risk seeing what state your board reaches the other side in

• Go to the locally owned Indika cafe for the most delicious, well, everything! Cakes, homemade bread, curry, coffee, you name it, it’s great.

• Consider visiting in April - rainy season is just finishing, the island will be at its most lush, and you have the chance to experience the Easter celebrations. I’ve heard it’s incredible, with every village competing to put on the best light display.

And in case you missed the previous niche bucketlist destination, check it out below ⬇️

All unpacked content is free, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work. Give the post a like ❤️ (even if you don’t have a Substack account), share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or buy me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

buy me a matcha 🍵

Thank you for being here xx

fialka

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Coming from the (cheap) Czech Republic to the (expensive) New Zealand on a student budget, I didn’t have many options but to penny-pinch. Traveling lowcost wasn’t an aesthetic to aspire to; it wasn’t even a choice, really. It was simply the only way I could have made the trip happen.

Not to feed into 2016 nostalgia, but in hindsight, I wonder if I caught the end of a very specific era during my backpacking beginnings. The golden age of budget travel, if you will. A time when backpacking was no longer something reserved for the hippiest of hippies and not quite yet the ‘mandatory’ thing to do after graduation. When lowcost flights and accommodation were actually cheap, and travel communities were large enough to be well organized but still too niche to be profitable.

A time that doesn’t feel all that different from today, precisely because the changes that happened were so subtle and deliberate.

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Fast forward to 2026. More people are traveling now than at any point in history, which should mean that travel has become more affordable overall, right?
Not necessarily. Upon closer inspection, the opposite seems to be true.

no such thing as a cheap flight

I remember the peak of cheap flights and Jet2 holidays. Chasing deals, discounts and error fares was almost a sport for us broke university students longing to get out there and see the world. Personally, I never snatched a true superdeal, but I did fly from Prague to London and back for 20 euros, for example.

If that doesn’t seem very different from today’s fares to you, let me add that these were direct flights and included in the price was at least a carry-on bag and some human decency.

Budget airlines are now happier than ever to make you pay for everything beyond the absolute bare minimum (not to mention the superhuman skill required to navigate through the user interface without accidentally buying some bullshit add-on you didn’t want). They aren’t really lowcost anymore, they’re slightly cheaper than regular carriers and come with a side of dehumanization.

And what’s worse, we let it happen—complain about your flight experience, Ryanair will repost it with a sassy comment, and people will laugh about it on the internet. That’s what you get for being broke and flying Ryanair, silly!

the evolution of budget accommodation

Besides lowcost airlines, Airbnb is probably the second most famous case of price expansion and simultaneous enshittification. A platform formerly beloved for offering a more affordable and low-key alternative to hotels is now not only a villain responsible for gentrification and displacement, but also just as expensive as the thing it was supposed to replace. Plus, the service you get for the price is, well, inferior.

With costs converging to hotel levels, the “sleeping in a local’s spare bedroom” aspect long gone, and light being shed on how the platform helps destroy cities, Airbnb now has very little of its original appeal left. Let me get this straight—I have to pay cleaning fees AND also clean the apartment myself before checking out because I’m staying in “someone’s home”? And the “host” who supposedly lives there just so happens to run five near-identical listings all around the city? Give me a break. I’d rather be somewhere with room service at this point.

Airbnb is, however, only one of the many things that have gone from cheap to luxury over the recent years…

what happened to hostels?

Hostels used to be the no-brainer accommodation choice for budget travelers and backpackers because they were all they could afford. That was kind of the whole point—you pay the lowest possible price for a shitty bunk bed and pray it won’t be too gross.

But something has shifted. Hostels all around the world are becoming increasingly nicer, more polished, remote work friendly and running organized events like yoga classes, high-production parties or family dinners to the point they’re sometimes more reminiscent of an adult summer camp than a hostel. All of a sudden, the appeal isn’t just a cheap bed to crash at; hostels now curate a vibe and sell an experience.

Which would be amazing if the beds were still cheap.

The current-day backpacker is happy to pay extra for staying at an instagrammable place with built-in social activities. And nothing wrong with that—there is a use case for a curated digital nomad yoga retreat, as well as the old-fashioned backpacker hostel. It’s just that in many popular destinations, the lines between the two are intentionally being blurred in a way that the former is slowly replacing the latter, decimating the number of options for those who need a truly affordable place to sleep.

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dual pricing and nature behind paywall

Madeira has recently resorted to a paid reservation system for its most popular hikes due to overcrowding and conservation concerns. Over in Rome, throwing a coin into the Trevi fountain now costs €2, and several European islands are introducing taxes for simply being there.

As overtourism becomes a real threat in many parts of the world, destinations are vehemently trying to come up with ways to mitigate the impact and squeeze out some extra profit at the same time. That’s how we’re starting to see more and more dual pricing systems for attractions as well as new entry fees for formerly free-to-access natural and historical sites.

These measures are arguably not bad and might even be a necessary component in the ongoing battle against mass tourism takeover. That, however, doesn’t change the fact that the pool of free activities one can enjoy while traveling on a tight budget is shrinking by the day.

death of the alternative

For adventurous souls who can’t afford even the least expensive transportation or lodging, there have always been plenty of more unconventional alternatives. Hitchhiking, ridesharing, couchsurfing, volunteering, house and pet sitting, home swaps. The craftiest hippies have always found a way of doing things differently while saving a few bucks. Still, I can’t help but notice how even these formerly punk travel styles are being slowly rebranded and commodified.

Couchsurfing app, once an amazing resource for making connections on a budget, is now a paid service for both surfers and hosts. Yearly membership fees for volunteering platforms are steadily rising, and, in some twisted dystopian fashion, Worldpackers has started offering “opportunities” where volunteers must pay their hosts in addition to working.

Another example of a community-oriented service platformized and monetized is BlaBlaCar, Europe’s favourite long-distance carpooling service. Once a straightforward trust-based tool that connected drivers with passengers and let them negotiate the price themselves has undergone an Uber-style makeover. Ride costs on the platform are now driven by algorithms, with BlaBla charging passengers up to 30% service fee, making it cheaper to just catch a train.

Not all is doomed though. For every app fallen victim to corporate greed, a Facebook or a Discord channel is out there doing the same thing for free, connecting travelers and keeping the community spirit alive. Various alternatives to the Couchsurfing app, like beWelcome, have emerged, as well as more niche communities such as Host a Sister. Similarly, ridesharing has now moved back to where it first originated, dedicated route-specific groups and channels.

While these projects are operating on a way smaller scale than, say, Couchsurfing or BlaBlaCar in their prime, they are organic, community-driven, and most importantly, still accessible to everyone.

For most of modern tourism history, backpackers and budget travelers were never particularly welcome. They were seen as the wrong kind of visitor—too young, too loud, too poor. Worried they didn’t spend enough money and took up space without contributing meaningfully to the local economy, destinations were never shy of discouraging these “undesirable” travelers from visiting.

And to be fair, the jury is still out on that issue. Some studies suggest that backpackers staying longer and distributing their money more locally results in poverty alleviation and less economic leakage. Other studies found that not the case and instead describe the economic impact of backpackers as following patterns similar to traditional tourism.

To this day, the debate doesn’t seem to be settled, at least not in a way supported by enough conclusive research. There’s also a notable absence of any relevant studies carried out post-pandemic.

What is clear, though, is that the narrative has shifted. Backpackers are increasingly not treated as an inconvenience to be tolerated but as a demographic to be catered to. Backpacking itself has then been transformed from something you did because you couldn’t afford anything else to an identity to embody.

Backpacking is now defined by an aesthetic rather than a budget. The ideals of lowcost travel remain alive and well in marketing strategies while slowly getting sanitized to extinction in real life, making the lifestyle unaffordable to the youths who pioneered it. The barrier to entry has been raised, only letting in those who can afford to perform the culture rather than rely on it.

So, are we witnessing a slow death of budget and alternative travel in 4K?

Perhaps, at least as we know it. It’s hard to say what the future of travel looks like for those who can’t afford to pay premium dressed up as grassroots. Maybe it will live on in niche online groups and communities. Maybe it’s going completely analog, fully embracing the original hippie spirit. Maybe new products will emerge to replace those that lost touch with their original target audiences. Hopefully, the backpackers of the future are a bit more concerned with the impact they have on their destinations and do their part in supporting the people who live there.

In any case, budget travel may be forced back to its margins before it can become accessible again.

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Thanks for reading! All unpacked content is free, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you enjoyed reading this post, here are a few things you can do to support me & my work. Give the post a like ❤️ (even if you don’t have a Substack account), share ↪️ it with a friend or on your social media, or buy me a matcha 🍵 to keep the newsletter going.

Thank you for being here xx

fialka

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