What White Lotus Teaches Us About Tourism's Shadow Side

Photo by Rainhard Wiesinger via Unsplash.

Where I live, it’s the first weekend of the fall (meteorologically), and it’s meant to rain a good part of it. This is welcome after a summer drought and wildfires that are still out of control in my province and much of Canada. On rainy days, I will not turn down the opportunity to indulge in a series on TV. What does that have to do with sustainable tourism? As I found out recently (admittedly, I’m late to the White Lotus party), a lot.

What if satire held up the most honest mirror we have to the tourism industry?

HBO's White Lotus isn't advertised as a treatise on tourism. But it might be one of the most poignant and scathing critiques of the industry we've seen on screen. Across three seasons (and a fourth on the way—rumours say it will definitely be set in Europe and possibly France), the series strips the glitter from luxury resorts and shows us what often lies beneath: inequality, entitlement, emotional labour, and the quiet, systemic violences masked by tropical flowers and turn-down service.

The show doesn't moralize. It doesn't have to. It simply observes and trusts the viewer to connect the dots. That's where its power lies.

And if you work in tourism or travel, especially in a place that depends on it like I do, you've likely felt the tension that the show brings into full view.

The Illusion of Paradise

Set in opulent, all-inclusive resorts, from Hawai'i to Sicily to Thailand's Koh Samui, White Lotus unfolds in spaces where "paradise" is manufactured for those who can afford it. Yet beneath the surface lies the truth: these places are not escape hatches from reality, but microcosms of the world's injustices, magnified.

The show's impact extends far beyond the screen. The Thailand season has already triggered a surge in "set-jetting"—with bookings at the Four Seasons Resort Koh Samui increasing by 312% and average daily rates rising by over 40%. But this boom comes with familiar costs: water shortages, waste management crises, and rising living expenses that price out locals—exactly the dynamics White Lotus satirizes.

In Season 1, we witness the discomfort of Hawaiian staff catering to mostly white, affluent tourists. Indigenous culture is reduced to décor or performance; something for guests to consume.

This isn't fiction. In Hawai'i, tensions around tourism have been escalating for years. As of 2023, the state welcomed over 9 million tourists annually—many of them to the same resorts that displaced Indigenous landholders. Meanwhile, Indigenous Hawaiians are more likely to work low-wage tourism jobs, face housing insecurity, and are disproportionately affected by environmental degradation caused by the sector. A 2021 University of Hawai'i survey found that about half of residents prefer limiting tourism, with even stronger support among Indigenous Hawaiian communities.

White Lotus dramatizes this erasure, but the facts are already dramatic enough.

Photo by Antonio Araujo via Unsplash.

Co-Destruction: When Everyone Loses Something

We often frame the harms of tourism as something that happens to destinations, to host communities. However, White Lotus adds another layer: harm also befalls the tourist.

Not in obvious ways—but subtly, spiritually. Through alienation, narcissism, and a hollowing out of real connection.

Characters in the series aren't villains; they're profoundly lonely people searching for meaning in all the wrong places. Travel becomes not an opportunity to grow, but a performance—to prove status, power, or even wokeness. In the process, tourists harm not only others but themselves. As the term "co-destruction" implies, it's a cycle where everyone loses something.

It's easy to imagine the positive value tourism creates, but White Lotus pushes us to understand how tourism also co-destroys value, both intentionally and unintentionally. I first grasped this concept while working with the Flourishing Business Canvas, which offers a systemic approach to understanding the complex needs of all stakeholders in tourism—from businesses to destinations to communities. This awareness helps us design more resilient, regenerative, and equitable tourism that creates mutual flourishing rather than mutual extraction.

When Tourism is Designed to Extract, It Does

It's tempting to chalk this up to "bad tourism." But the reality is more sobering: much of the industry is working exactly as it was designed.

Mainstream tourism, especially at the luxury level, is built on a foundation of inequality: a small group enjoys resources, space, and service that others are paid to provide but rarely experience themselves. The business model relies on low-paid labour, imported goods, and mass marketing that often erases the very culture it sells.

And even sustainable tourism can fall into this trap when it focuses more on optics than outcomes.

We see this in greenwashed resorts that advertise LEED certification while draining aquifers. We see it in wildlife encounters that claim to be ethical but are poorly regulated. And we see it in "local" experiences that were designed by outside consultants, with no community ownership or long-term benefit.

It's not enough to make tourism less harmful. We have to ask: what is the purpose of tourism, and who is it ultimately for?

Photo by Allec Gomes via Unsplash.

So What Could a Better Path Look Like?

If White Lotus is a warning, here's what a more just, regenerative alternative might include:

1. Rebalance power.

Shift ownership models to enable communities to have a genuine stake in tourism ventures, through co-ops, social enterprises, and revenue-sharing agreements. Policy can play a role here: in parts of Canada, Indigenous-led tourism is growing thanks to funding for landback and community control.

2. Design for reciprocity.

Don't just "give back"—build tourism models that are co-created with and for local people. This could look like social impact levies that fund housing, climate action, or food security. Simple partnerships, such as Halifax's collaboration with La Tablée des Chefs to recover food from events for redistribution, demonstrate how tourism can address genuine community needs.

3. Host with consent.

Just because a destination is "open for tourism" doesn't mean it's consenting to every kind of tourism. Places like Venice are beginning to impose visitor limits. Others, like Bhutan, require a daily fee that supports local health and education. These are not restrictions—they're boundaries. And they matter.

4. Rehumanize the experience.

Train staff not only in service, but in storytelling and local history. Invite guests into moments of humility, not just indulgence. What if a resort offered a "reconnection concierge," instead of a pillow menu?

Tourism doesn't have to be a satire of itself.

It can be something slower. More mutual. More honest.

White Lotus reveals what happens when we fail to ask hard questions about who tourism is for, who it harms, and what it leaves behind. But outside the screen, we still have time to write a different story; one grounded in care, courage, and community.