Rethinking Wildlife Tourism in India’s National Parks
There is a moment that repeats itself in forests across India, one that I, first as a professional naturalist and now as a traveller, have witnessed time after time. A line of safari vehicles stands still on a forest track. Cameras are raised, people shout from one jeep to another while somewhere in the undergrowth a tiger moves unseen. The excitement builds and the release comes in loud gasps and excited screams as the tiger breaks cover and reveals itself.
This Bollywood-style song-and-dance spectacle is, unfortunately, becoming the norm for safari experiences in India and it raises an uncomfortable question in my mind: are we protecting the wild or slowly packaging it?
Our parks are places of extraordinary abundance, hotspots of biodiversity, stunning landscapes and immensely popular with tourists. Yet the very reasons that make them so special also make them fragile and vulnerable. The fact that they cover only about 5% of India’s total area makes them even more precious.
All of this makes me question if tourism and the associated pressures that come with it can truly be considered ethical, sustainable or even desirable in such a scenario. Which in turn leads to another question — should tourism even exist in these places?
The answer is yes. Tourism should exist because people need to be exposed to wildlife. We preserve only what we love and we cannot love that which we cannot see or experience ourselves. Therefore, the real question is not whether tourism should exist in these places, rather, it is how much of it we should allow, why it exists and who it ultimately serves.
Tourism, like most other commercial activities, is often viewed in terms of numbers: how many people visit a particular place, how many people visit India from other countries, how much revenue is generated and so on. The deeper impact of tourism on a destination, however, often goes unrecorded because it cannot easily be presented through statistics.
Having said that, revenue generation is also very important because wildlife conservation, despite its romantic image, is not cheap. Protection requires people, vehicles, and equipment. Fire lines need to be maintained, waterholes must sometimes be managed and scientific monitoring of wildlife populations is essential. Governments must also compensate farmers when elephants trample crops or when a leopard takes livestock.
Protected areas like Nagarhole and Bandipur may appear pristine when we drive through them but behind that tranquillity lies a constant logistical and financial effort to keep these landscapes functioning.
Tourism, when practised properly, can support this effort. At the risk of repeating myself and stating the obvious as I feel it merits saying again: park fees generate revenue, and lodges create employment in nearby villages. A driver, a naturalist, a housekeeper, a mechanic — each of them represents a livelihood that does not depend on extracting timber or grazing livestock inside the forest.
Another important spin-off is that when people, especially locals, earn their living because the forest exists they become invested in protecting it.
Having argued the case for wildlife tourism’s existence, let us now turn our attention to how much of it we should allow. There are many models in existence, ranging from high-impact budget tourism to low-density luxury tourism. The answer is complicated and, like most things in life, the balance is delicate. One thing, however, is certain: when numbers increase without restraint the forest begins to feel the weight.
There is much to be said for the low-density luxury model, however, it has its weaknesses. For starters it restricts entry and access which negates one of the core purposes of wildlife tourism — exposing people to nature with a view to garnering their support for its preservation.
When you have a high-end model wildlife begins to be viewed as a luxury not worth preserving. This model also does not generate enough local employment to build a political constituency for conservation. However, in its defence, it does reduce ecological pressure: fewer rooms, higher tariffs, lower volume.
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Another subtle risk that luxury tourism brings is what I call the spectator effect. Luxury and comfort, extraordinary hospitality, good food, beautiful rooms, excellent facilities et al can insulate people from reality and turn them into spectators where the performance itself becomes the experience.
A safari becomes entertainment and visitors leave without understanding why wildlife corridors matter, how climate patterns are shifting or why coexistence between people and animals is complicated.
The experience should evolve beyond entertainment. It should change, for the better, the way people see the natural world. After all, the wild deserves far more than admiration from the comfort of a veranda.
High-impact budget tourism or low-density luxury tourism — how do we solve this dilemma? Unfortunately, there is no simple answer, no clear-cut method. Both have their advantages and disadvantages and perhaps a mix of the two is a reasonable compromise. I do believe there is merit in the Indian system where, regardless of where you choose to stay, at a high-end lodge or a budget homestay, everyone is equal once they enter the park. Luxury begins and ends at the lodge.
Let us move away from the luxury versus budget debate and instead turn our attention to what makes tourism sustainable and ethical regardless of the price point. I am going to go about this in the old-fashioned way by listing out its pros and cons. Not exactly literary excellence but kindly bear with me.
Wildlife first: I opened the article by describing a Bollywood-style song-and-dance wildlife sighting. That, needless to say, is far from ethical. During a wildlife sighting, when an animal becomes the focal point we must remind ourselves of something very simple — it did not invite us here nor did it ask for our attention.
We need to understand this and respect an animal’s private space by avoiding crowding it and resisting pressure from guests to do so. A safari conducted purely as entertainment produces social media content. A safari conducted thoughtfully produces something far more valuable — understanding. And understanding, over time, creates advocates for conservation.
Unlike wildlife, the people who live around the park are largely invisible to tourists. But for them conservation is not an abstract idea — it is a daily negotiation. Elephants can destroy an entire season’s crop in a single night. Leopards occasionally take livestock. In some places even stepping out after dark carries risk.
Tourism cannot claim to be ethical or to support conservation if it ignores these communities. Jobs must be local. Opportunities must be visible. Education, healthcare access and alternative livelihoods should matter to the lodge just as much as wildlife sightings.
A forest does not function like a fenced garden; it is a living landscape that is fluid and constantly in motion. Animals move through it as they have for centuries. Elephants travel long distances, following ancient routes that predate our roads and settlements. Young tigers, once they come of age, disperse in search of territories of their own.
These movements depend on connectivity. And this is where tourism operators must look beyond the neat boundaries of their properties. Supporting corridor protection, working with researchers and conservation organisations and advocating sensible land-use planning are not optional acts of goodwill. They are part of the responsibility that comes with operating in a wild landscape.
A lodge can run on solar power, recycle its water, and serve organic food. But if the surrounding landscape slowly fragments, its claims of sustainability ring hollow.
Tourism also carries its own environmental footprint none of which is impact-free. The most honest approach is to acknowledge that impact and to continuously try to reduce it.
To sum up quickly, as most of this has been stated and repeated ad nauseam, tourism can be considered ethical and sustainable if the financial benefits reach both conservation and local communities, wildlife welfare is given priority over guest expectations, operators think at a landscape level, and above all, accept scrutiny and accountability. Without those things the language of sustainability quickly becomes marketing.
Let me end by trying to redefine what luxury in a forest really means. After years of spending time in forests, I have come to realise that true luxury here is not about indulgence. It is about space. It is about silence. It is about time — the slow unfolding of the forest around you. The forest does not need admiration. It needs restraint.
If tourism can practise that restraint — economically, ecologically and ethically — it may justify its presence in the world’s most fragile landscapes. If it cannot, the forest will eventually remind us who truly pays the price.
