After spending a month on safari in East Africa across six locations in Kenya and Tanzania, our hearts and minds had been cracked wide open. So many people had told us they fell in love with Africa from the moment they arrived. I felt that visiting the great rift valley, quite literally the cradle of humanity, might offer a profoundly beautiful and somewhat spiritual experience. While I still wasn't totally sure of what to expect, I simply arrived with an open mind and a heavy dose of anticipation. And after those 30 days, my expectations were exceeded by a long shot.
The places we explored, the people we met, the animals we encountered, and the stories we heard utterly blew our minds. Words feel inadequate to describe just how emotionally charged our time in Kenya and mainland Tanzania was. I had only felt this connected to terrestrial spaces once before—deep in Peru, working with the Meru Jungle Specialists in the Amazon’s most pristine, untouched region. There, we encountered a group of baby monkeys, with one in particular being a tiny, endangered woolly monkey with saucer-like eyes.
Holding the baby woolly monkey in my arms after her mother had been killed in a car accident was gut-wrenching. Her big brown eyes seemed to be a pleading invitation to stay, as if I could replace what she had lost. When we had to leave, she cried and clung to me, breaking my heart into even more pieces—not just for her, but for the Amazon and all its fragile inhabitants. I understood, in that moment, what happened to Jane Goodall in the jungle all those years ago. Connecting with species in this way changes you.
East Africa brought those feelings back tenfold, on a scale so immense and so consistent that it was impossible to not get lost in the thought of it. Lions, elephants, leopards, cheetahs, endangered rhinos, wildebeests, giraffes, zebras—the list goes on. They all appeared in full display, every single day, for those 30 days straight. And we weren’t just observing them; we were working alongside the people dedicated to protecting them, including members of the Maasai, one of the region’s largest ethnic groups, who are as committed to preserving their culture as they are the wildlife.
Coming off this life-altering experience, we made our way to the island of Zanzibar, located off the Swahili coast of Tanzania. In our minds, we envisioned white sand beaches, pristine and untouched, thriving with marine life. What we found instead was a very different reality.
The only thing thriving here was rampant overtourism. The streets were filled with drunk visitors—many of whom were American—roaming aimlessly and asking where to find the nearest Wi-Fi cafe. Stonetown, the island’s main city, was a shadow of its former self. Its crumbling buildings, a testament to decades of neglect, stood in contrast to the tourist-ready interiors, revamped to offer a sanitized version of home for middle-class travelers. To be clear, we’re tourists too, and this isn’t a knock on tourism as a whole. But overtourism is something else entirely, and here, it was impossible to ignore.
Local kids flipped off docks for tips, filming TikToks with passing tourists. On nearby Prison Island—ironically named given its current branding as a tortoise sanctuary—giant, ancient tortoises were being ridden by visitors. The entire scene felt wrong. Moving around the island along the coast, the chaos of Stonetown gave way to luxury resorts catering to travelers seeking an escape from the city’s disorder. Perfectly manicured for the discerning guest, these zones felt worlds apart from the depleted streets just a few kilometers away—but this stark contrast indicated a different kind of troubling tourism.
And that dichotomy was painfully obvious here. Coming off the journey we’d just had, it was both unsettling and eye-opening—a reality that’s hard to look at but necessary to reflect on as well. And it hadn’t always been this way here. We could almost envision a different version of Zanzibar from years ago, before its natural wonders became overrun. Fortunately, we were about to experience a remnant of that version, a place protected from the erosion of both culture and conservation.
Our destination was Chumbe Island Coral Park (CHIOP), home to the world’s first privately managed marine protected area. This sanctuary has been safeguarded for over three decades, a rarity along the Swahili coast. Just 20 minutes from Zanzibar’s main island, our boat arrived at a sight that had us floored: pristine beaches, coral reefs so colorful that you could see it from the surface, and dense, thick jungle—all intact and thriving. Chumbe felt like a time machine, transporting us to a Zanzibar of the past.
Run entirely sustainably, from solar-powered energy to sawdust composting toilets, the island had no connectivity except for one communal space. And for us, this was a glimpse of what’s possible when nature is left to thrive. The first thing we noticed were the colossal coconut crabs crawling everywhere—a sign of a healthy ecosystem. Next, the verdant jungle came alive with kingfisher birds, their striking red beaks vivid against a backdrop of green. But it was the baby blacktip reef sharks that left us speechless, leaping out of the water and spinning in the air like dolphins—a rare behavior that defied explanation. Their presence signaled a very healthy and properly maintained reef ecosystem.
And without a doubt, the reef itself was the star of the show. Nearly perfect coral cover stretched as far as we could see—an incredible contrast to the eroded, overdeveloped coastline we’d witnessed on Zanzibar’s main island. This pristine marine ecosystem was no accident. CHIOP strictly limits visitors, prohibits fishing and scuba diving, and allows no extraction of any kind. It’s a true sanctuary.
While all aspects of their conservation work were epic, it was their education endeavors that struck us the most. During our stay, the team invited 16 teenagers from nearby islands to visit Chumbe for a life-changing day. For many, it was their first time swimming or snorkeling, and with that, their first time seeing a coral reef up close. When the students arrived, the girls immediately ran over to us, bursting with curiosity. “Where are you from?” “What are you doing here?” “Have you ever seen the reefs before?” They clicked with us instantly, as if we were lifelong friends or kindred spirits. They shared their hopes and dreams with unguarded optimism, even as they spoke eloquently about the challenges of climate change.
Half of the group aspired to become doctors or educators. The other half dreamed of being activists and conservationists. Listening to them, we couldn’t help but feel hopeful. If the future is left in their hands, people will be healthy and the natural world will be intact! For many of these kids, their parents’ fear of the ocean had kept them from ever learning to swim. In their world, the ocean was a dark, mysterious place to be avoided.
Equipped with snorkels, fins, life jackets, and inner tubes, we took the students to the heart of the reef, where the water was shallow and calm, no more than 10-12 meters deep. One by one, they jumped in, their facial expressions showing a mixture of fear, excitement, and anticipation. Three girls clung tightly to my arms, terrified to put their faces in the water. With patience and encouragement, each one finally dipped her head below the surface. The initial wince was quickly replaced by wide-eyed wonder. They were hooked. The energy was contagious and exhausting. Their unfiltered amazement, their endless questions about every tiny creature on the reef, and their sheer joy reminded me of my first ocean experience. For the first time in all of my adventures through the rivers, seas and oceans, I found myself helping others take their first steps—or strokes—into the underwater world I have grown to love so dearly.
By the end of the day, we were all moved and filled with cautious hope. For a few precious hours, we caught a glimpse of what the future could look like: one defined by connection, possibility, and an unwavering love for the natural world. Later, back at the Chumbe base, we gathered for a session on climate change. The kids, weary-eyed from a full day of swimming, jungle treks, and coconut crab spotting, leaned in with curiosity. Despite their exhaustion, they were here for it—eager to learn, to ask questions, and to grapple with the challenges of a world in decline.
When we asked if they were scared for the future, their answer was a resounding no. To them, the future wasn’t something to fear; it was something they held right in their hands. “If it’s up to us,” they said, “the world will be in a better place when we’re done with it.” We chose to believe them, because believing felt like a small but necessary act of hope.
Tourism, like all things, has its pros and cons. While it can bring economic benefits and cultural exchange, it also has the potential to exploit communities and degrade natural environments. But stopping travel altogether isn’t the answer. When done with thoughtfulness, intention, and a commitment to contribution, travel can be a powerful force for good. The challenge lies in the growing issue of overtourism—something we’ve witnessed firsthand as we’ve circumnavigated the globe. Scrolling an Instagram feed for the "top 20 destinations to visit" and flocking to them at peak season is far from sustainable. This kind of unchecked tourism strips places of their authenticity, strains local resources, and often leaves behind more harm than good.
To shift the narrative, we have to travel with purpose. That means supporting ethical operators, visiting destinations in the off-season, opting for deeper, longer stays, and forging meaningful connections with the communities we encounter. It’s about leaving places better than we found them—giving back in exchange for the experiences we are so privileged to have. When we arrived in Zanzibar, we felt the weight of these concerns, unsure if we’d be able to make a meaningful impact. But then we met the kids—engaging with them in a way that felt genuine, human, and deeply reciprocal. By showing up where it truly matters, we left not feeling hopeless, but hopeful. This was one of those moments where we knew, without a doubt, we were in the right place at the right time.
To be continued …
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