Escapes WEEKENDER
plant trees, or it could involve using your social media savvy to promote an indigenous-owned food truck. “Tourism can work like a forest: different species interacting to adjust to the situation they are in,” argues Anna Pollock, founder of the social enterprise Conscious Travel. “No lone hero is the leader anymore; we must come together in community.” Of course, you can stay in an ecolodge and help nurture the area’s wildlife, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you probably had to climb on a plane to get there. “If implemented properly, the benefits [of regenerative travel] are obvious: The local ecosystem and people will be better off because of visits by regenerative travelers,” notes Mark Hixon, professor of marine biology at University of Hawai‘i. “[However], the potential costs are global: ever-increasing carbon emissions from air travel, worsening the effects of climate disruption.” Despite the aspirational intentions, even proponents like Public Affairs Officer of Hawai‘i Tourism Authority Ilihia Gionson, have not yet masterminded ways to address the long- term environmental impact of flying. “Everything we do to mitigate climate impact starts in a big hole because you have to get on a plane to get [to Hawai‘i],” he explains. Nevertheless, destinations like Hawai‘i are redefining their approach to tourism with regenerative practices in mind. Before the pandemic, 60 percent of Hawai‘ian residents felt that the state was being run for tourists—and it was. Tourism is Hawai‘i’s cash cow, a $20-billion-a-year industry that employs the majority of residents. But locals wanted change. Many worked multiple jobs to put food on the table, yet rarely saw their own kids. Traffic made simple trips to the market or doctor a daylong ordeal. Beaches were so packed on weekends that families couldn’t gather for luau celebrations. And, worse, visitors were disrespecting sacred places by eroding and polluting the state’s iconic beaches and rainforests. When the pandemic halted all travel, locals had their islands back. Many sought ways to sustain the Hawai‘i their grandparents told stories about—where kids could bike to quiet beaches with rideable waves. Because tourism is the state’s highest revenue source, officials couldn’t close Hawai‘i to outsiders, but they could change their messaging and metrics for success. Instead of measuring success by how many bodies filled hotel rooms, the tourism authority started taking the temperature of local sentiment, hoping to shift the tides toward a kind of tourism that residents felt was benefiting them and their land. Hotels introduced the Mālama Hawai‘i program, offering deals for guests who signed up for conservation activities like ancient fishpond restorations and beach clean-ups. State parks launched a reservation system for overcrowded destinations like Kauai’s Hāena Beach, Oahu’s Diamond Head and Hanauma Bay, and Maui’s Wai'ānapanapa Beach. For sacred or fragile ecosystems, like Hawai‘i Island’s Pololū Trail, local stewards were paid to educate visitors about the cultural significance—and danger— of the area. The state also instituted a ban on sunscreens with chemicals that harmed sea life (hint hint, San Diego).
UPPER Guests unwind during a yoga class at Playa Viva’s Ocean Shala. LOWER Unique tree houses make up the bulk of lodging options at Playa Viva.
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