Carta desde Caracas

Para cuando llegas a Caracas desde el aeropuerto, casi podrías convencerte de que Venezuela se está estabilizando.

La carretera está en buen estado. Las montañas que rodean la capital siguen siendo impresionantes, especialmente bajo la suave bruma de las primeras horas de la mañana. Los restaurantes están llenos en algunos barrios. Los vuelos internacionales están regresando poco a poco. Incluso hay señales de nuevas inversiones en ciertos sectores de la ciudad. Para alguien de fuera, especialmente si la visita es breve, puede parecer que el país se está reconstruyendo con cautela después de años de crisis.

Pero en Venezuela, las apariencias siempre han contado solo una parte de la historia.

Basta alejarse de las vías principales para que surja casi de inmediato otra realidad: barrios con infraestructuras deterioradas, apagones frecuentes, escasez de agua, creciente inseguridad y una población agotada tras años de colapso político y económico. En varias regiones fuera de Caracas, los habitantes soportan cortes de electricidad que duran hasta ocho horas al día. Algunas comunidades pasan días sin agua corriente. Incluso en la capital, los apagones y la escasez siguen siendo habituales, aunque menos graves que en otras zonas, lo que recuerda que Caracas continúa recibiendo un trato preferencial por el simple hecho de ser la sede del poder.

Los precios siguen subiendo sin tregua. Los alimentos, el transporte, los medicamentos y los artículos básicos del hogar: todo cuesta más. Muchos venezolanos tienen ahora varios empleos para poder sobrevivir. Según informes económicos recientes, algunos hogares necesitan hasta cuatro fuentes de ingresos para cubrir la canasta básica de alimentos. Mientras tanto, el tipo de cambio oficial continúa fluctuando, lo que añade aún más presión a la vida cotidiana.

La crisis también ha alterado el funcionamiento de la educación pública. Actualmente, algunas escuelas se utilizan para alojar a personas que perdieron sus viviendas en el terremoto, lo que obliga a niños y familias desplazadas a compartir espacios que ya eran limitados. En algunas instituciones, las aulas se dividen entre alojamientos temporales y clases regulares. Como no hay suficiente espacio para todos, los estudiantes asisten a menos clases cada semana. Otras escuelas sufrieron daños y siguen funcionando solo parcialmente debido a problemas estructurales. En la escuela de Sophia, por ejemplo, actualmente solo se utiliza la mitad del edificio, por lo que ella puede asistir a clases apenas dos veces por semana. Para las familias, esta interrupción se ha convertido en otra faceta de la realidad cotidiana de vivir en medio de la crisis.

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Conscious Tourism Is the Next Frontier

There are journeys that change your life. Seeing a glacier calve, hearing the silence of Antarctica, or traveling through the Andean highlands and the Amazon awakens a mixture of awe and humility that is difficult to describe. But there is an uncomfortable question that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore: what happens when the journey itself contributes to damaging what we went to see?

I've been fortunate enough to travel through diverse ecosystems in Latin America where nature still seems untamed. In many of them, from high mountain trails to Amazonian reserves, the same feeling always arises: the privilege of being there also implies a responsibility. No landscape exists solely to be consumed as a photograph.

This contradiction reaches its peak in Antarctica, which has become a symbol of so-called "last chance tourism": visiting a place before it changes forever. However, the growing popularity of these trips has sparked a debate that no longer comes solely from scientists, but also from those who know the territory best: their own guides.

When The Guides Stop Believing

In an article published by The Conversation, researchers interviewed 25 former Antarctic guides who left what many would consider their dream job. One of them summed up the conflict with a powerful phrase: "I can't work in the farce of climate change cruise tourism anymore."

Another testimony is even more revealing. Observing enormous glacier calving events, the guide confessed: "You'd see massive glacier calvings, and you'd just want to cry. But all the guests would be cheering." For him, the scene reflected the inability of many visitors to connect that spectacle with global warming.  [Go Back]

These voices highlight a gap between the environmental rhetoric of some in the industry and some of its practices. While many tour operators promote environmental education, the number of visitors continues to grow. According to the same study, Antarctica received more than 120,000 visitors during the 2025-2026 season, and projections point to nearly 450,000 visitors per season within the next decade.

From Wonder to Necessary Questions

I've walked on glaciers in Chilean Patagonia and paddled among turquoise icebergs in southern Argentina, and that awe is real, almost hypnotic. But I've also learned that awe doesn't absolve one of responsibility. Before booking a cruise or an expedition to an ecologically vulnerable area, it's worth asking about the operator's actual carbon footprint, how many passengers each vessel carries, whether there are verifiable policies for reducing impact, and whether their environmental certifications are audited by third parties or just a marketing ploy. Ideal advice for travelers isn't to look for the prettiest promise, but the most verifiable one.

The solution isn't for everyone to give up traveling. Real change begins when we stop being passive spectators and become conscious travelers. Before booking a trip, it's worth asking yourself what carbon footprint the trip generates, how many passengers disembark simultaneously, whether the company limits group sizes, funds scientific research, or has verifiable environmental certifications.

The same questions should guide us when visiting the Caribbean reefs, the Amazon, the Galápagos Islands, the Pantanal wetlands, or the Patagonian glaciers. Throughout Latin America, there are destinations whose beauty depends precisely on keeping human pressure low. Choosing responsible tour operators, staying on authorized trails, and strictly respecting wildlife are small decisions that, multiplied, reduce cumulative impacts.

However, it's also unfair to place the entire moral burden on the tourist. The problem is structural. Companies decide the size of their ships, the frequency of trips, and investments in cleaner technologies; governments set visitor limits, regulations, and enforcement mechanisms. Without solid rules, even the most well-intentioned traveler has limited room for maneuver.

Traveling Also Means Demanding Change

Informed tourists can become allies of conservation by demanding transparency and rewarding those who demonstrate genuine commitment, not just green marketing campaigns, with their choices. Asking about emissions, waste management, or contributions to scientific projects sends a powerful signal to an industry that is increasingly responsive to its customers' decisions.

Traveling will continue to be one of the most profound ways to understand our continent. But perhaps the true privilege lies not in reaching the most remote places, but in doing so in a way that allows those who come after us to find the same silence, the same glaciers, and the same biodiversity that we can still admire today.

Ultimately, protecting Latin America and polar ecosystems isn't just about stopping travel, but about learning to travel better. Each conscious decision may seem small compared to global challenges, but thousands of responsible choices end up transforming entire industries. Perhaps the best photograph of a trip isn't the one we share upon returning, but the landscape we manage to preserve for those who have yet to arrive.  [Go Back]

---Christopher Engholm----