800 kilometres across Yellowstone National Park

This earth originates from the greatest depths, yet it is newer than everything around us. In Yellowstone, we stand inside the caldera of an active volcano; the ground bubbles and steams. The heat from beneath gives the region its trademark feature: its colours. Yet in the end, that wasn’t the most fascinating part in this leg of the journey.

KM 900, 2.1 million years ago

First, however, a brief jump back in time; for Yellowstone is past and present all at once.

2.1 million years ago the Earth saw the birth and largest eruption to date of the Yellowstone volcano: the Huckleberry Ridge eruption. Two further eruptions followed. The last outbreak, which actually contributed to the caldera’s current shape, occurred just 640 000 years ago, known as the Lava Creek eruption.

We slowly drive into the park, approaching from the south directly from Grand Teton National Park. The road winds uphill. Behind us, a never-ending tailback of cars struggles up the slope. At over 2000 metres, the Land Cruiser’s engine no longer delivers much power, especially when climbing, so we push forward slowly yet steadily at 40 km/h. We quietly enjoy the landscape and keep an eye out for wildlife. The enthusiasm of the drivers behind us, who are taking the brunt of our black exhaust fumes, seems rather limited by comparison.

Lewis Falls comes into view, the river meanders through the tuff just like the road. Tuff is a rock formed from consolidated volcanic ash and pyroclasts. Reaching the ridge above, we stand at the edge of a round basin. Yet unlike so many volcanoes we have visited across the continent, we see neither a beginning nor an end at Yellowstone.

Yellowstone’s volcanic caldera measures 48 by 72 kilometres. Beneath the caldera lies a hotspot, the point where hot mantle material rises from deep within the Earth. The ridge we crest every time we drive through Yellowstone Park is the rim of the supervolcano. Below it bubbles a massive magma chamber, and its enormous forces can be felt all the way to the surface. At such hotspots, the Earth’s surface regenerates from ancient, molten rock. And this plateau rises and falls by several centimetres every year.

We have arrived in the present of our journey: where stone comes to life.

Some elements of a typical volcanic landscape are visible to the naked eye. Over 10 000 hydrothermal features shape the terrain. Geysers vent steam as if mini-factories were at work everywhere. Mud pots bubble away, and bison warm themselves on nature’s underfloor heating. Other features can only be felt: thermal springs warm the rivers to the perfect temperature for fish. And in winter, the interior of the caldera shelters a warm zone here and there where animals can escape the deepest snow.

And then there are the living organisms that only truly thrive in near-boiling water: thermophilic microorganisms. They not only withstand boiling water, but also feel right at home in extreme acidity. However, they like it hot but do not tolerate temperature shifts. In the hottest water live mainly transparent and yellow microbes, with the transparent ones glowing blue to the human eye. Along the cooler edges, orange, brown, and green groups gather. Together, they create an impressive, colourful, living spectacle.

Yellowstone National Park covers an area of nearly 9 000 square kilometres—2.5 times the size of Mallorca. Established in 1872, it is considered the first official national park in the world. However, the welcome news of nature conservation had a dark prelude—for animals and humans alike.

We drive along the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway over Dead Indian Pass towards the North East Entrance of Yellowstone National Park. The tragic name of the pass stems from the displacement of Native Americans from their ancestral lands. The Nez Perce fled from the Yellowstone mountains to the Great Plains during the Nez Perce War of 1877. In doing so, they outsmarted the US Army: they led them to believe they were taking the easier southern route. Instead, they climbed the steep pass. By the time the soldiers realised, the Nez Perce were gone. Apparently, however, a Nez Perce was ultimately killed on the pass—giving Dead Indian Pass its name.

The region around the Rocky Mountains was inhabited by various Indigenous groups. For a long time, they were tolerated in these barren and challenging areas because settlers were slow to reach them. Originally, the concept of a “national park” arose in the early 19th century as a place where Native Americans could maintain their traditional way of life. But the idea shifted: Native Americans were forced onto Indian reservations, and from the national parks emerged the dream of creating an untouched wilderness. Until then, the American wilderness was viewed merely as a vast, lawless hunting ground.

What has become of this wilderness is something we want to see with our own eyes.

The drive continues, leaving the ancient lakes behind, we follow the rivers nestled in lush green valleys. At first, the landscape is flat; then gentle hills begin to appear, the road winding its way through them. The hills grow higher, the valleys deeper. Spring has only just awoken. The first wildflowers are sprouting along the roadside, and the last of the snow is only slowly melting. Rushing rivers taper off into gentle streams before they become freshwater springs.

Then, sudden calm: a vast plain opens up before us, the Snake River flows leisurely southwards, and behind it—there—towering mountain peaks rise abruptly into the sky. The rock glints grey in the last rays of sunlight against a pitch-black sky: a thunderstorm is brewing. It is the calm before the storm in the Grand Tetons.

KM 810, 10 million years ago

We stroll through the town centre and window-shop at the luxury boutiques: cowboy hats, furs, and boots. What was once an important hunting ground for the indigenous population has transformed into a jet-set destination for both summer and winter. Here, the Rocky Mountains are accessible to everyone. And as soon as you drive out of Jackson Hole, the Tetons show off their absolute best side.

The Rocky Mountains were formed by tectonic shifts around 80 to 50 million years ago. However, as we know, the Earth kept moving—and continues to do so—and it wasn’t until barely 10 million years ago that the Teton Range began to take shape.

Along the roughly 60-kilometre-long Teton Fault, the mountain range lifts up bit by bit with every earthquake, whilst the basin of Jackson Hole sinks on the eastern side. Geologically speaking, because the Teton Range is extremely young, it has almost no foothills. What’s more, erosion simply hasn’t had enough time to round off its jagged, dramatic peaks.

Today, we hike right over the moraines left behind by the ice. Our first hike in Grand Teton National Park is enchanting: taking a longer route around Emma Matilda Lake, we find ourselves scrambling over rocks, stones, and fallen tree trunks. The less-trodden paths receive very little maintenance here. There are bear tracks everywhere, though we only spot the creature itself once we are safely back in the car. A black bear pops up for a brief second, standing on its hind legs to get its bearings. But before we can even process it, he’s vanished back into the brush.

The other hike around Jenny Lake is much busier. People pass us constantly, and apart from birds, we hardly see any wildlife. Yet the shimmering blue of the lake practically begs for a swim on our first warm, sunny day in the US. We certainly aren’t going to pass that up.

We really enjoy the more secluded corners of the Grand Tetons; the rest of the park suffers from the usual hustle and bustle typical of US national parks. During our first few days, we notice that even in the middle of severe thunderstorms and pouring rain, people still ignore the danger and walk out onto the viewing platforms.

On the way to Yellowstone

The storm quickly passed after another few days in Grand Teton. It’s time for us to move on, leaving the peace and quiet of the more remote areas behind. The road slowly climbs steeper up the mountainside. We head further north along the eastern flank of the Rocky Mountains.

A bustling modern highlight awaits us. What exploded into existence 2.1 million years ago is today even called the Serengeti of North America. We are entering the active volcano of Yellowstone National Park, where not only wild animals await, but also crowds of visitors on the hunt for the perfect experience.

“You can’t miss Utah” – you hear it from all sides. Every traveller we meet recommends that we absolutely must go there. The red rocks that define the national parks are said to be the highlight of the USA. The clear night sky is supposedly one of the most beautiful in the world. The off-road tracks running through the state are considered some of the most exciting and varied anywhere.

Full of expectations, we too set off on our journey to the USA, looking forward to Utah above all else. In the end, however, the red state did not overwhelm us; if anything, it was rather disappointing.

The desert state of Utah is home to five of the most beautiful and famous national parks in the USA. Consequently, it is one of the main travel destinations for both domestic and international tourists. Everyone wants to be photographed under one of the massive stone arches in Utah at least once, especially since a trip to the USA remains a once-in-a-lifetime experience for many.

Where does the red come from? The geology of Utah’s rocks

Don’t get us wrong. The nature in Utah is enchanting. The red colour of the earth is caused by oxidation. When the earth erodes, the iron comes into contact with oxygen and oxidises into a red colour: hematite is formed. Hematite is a powerful pigment which then, through further erosion, settles on the sand and rocks. Everything appears red.

Utah was once a vast desert near an ocean. Due to the oxygen-rich surface water, the hematite oxidised more easily, and over time, red sandstone was created. Depending on whether other minerals are present in the mix, the oxidation colour deviates from the typical red: there is yellow, orange, or brownish earth. Added to this is bleached white: since sandstone is highly permeable, the hematite can be washed out further over millions of years until no pigments are left in the rock (you can find more details on the geology at Wilderness Commonsense).

We wanted to see this wonder up close. Our first destination: Zion National Park. The disillusionment at the entrance: people everywhere, no parking spaces, and traffic jams at the toll booths. Hiking? Unthinkable; we couldn’t even pull the car over for a moment to use the toilet. Of course, it was the weekend, which intensified the tourist crowds even further.

It is only when we get to Utah that we encounter another mass phenomenon. Many hiking trails—both inside and outside the parks—require a permit. This allows the crowds to be managed and the resulting environmental damage to be minimised. In principle, it’s a good thing.The catch is that simply to get hold of this permit, you have to enter a lottery. To participate, you pay a small fee of around 10 USD. If you happen to be one of the few lucky winners of a ticket, you then have to pay all over again just to actually step onto the trail.

The boom in outdoor experiences has meant that access to nature must be treated restrictively, especially on spectacular routes. The masses of tourists, whether international or national holidaymakers or hikers, must be managed if we want to preserve these attractions for future generations.

However, the lottery website Recreation.gov is also facing criticism because it is run by a private contractor that pockets these non-refundable fees. The majority of the fees do not even seem to reach the parks where they are actually needed.

Utahs national parks require either a lot of patience or precise planning

We had heard about it, but experiencing it on the ground was more jarring than expected. The crowds, the permits that are far from easy to secure, and the need to plan months in advance changed the way we travel. Most of these permits are released in the winter. If you aren’t sitting directly at your computer to book them, the entire season sells out instantly.

There are 4×4 routes in Canyonlands National Park where we had heard from others that they were allowed to drive spontaneously—whereas we, at the start of high season, wouldn’t have found a single free slot until more than two weeks later.

Doing anything spontaneously is no longer really possible in the USA—certainly not if it is anywhere near a hotspot. There are still beautiful hikes that are accessible without any trouble, or other stunning landscapes, but you have to invest a lot more time to find them.

The conditions we encountered on the ground dampened our mood a bit as we travelled through Utah. Yes, the rock formations are impressive, especially in the right light when the sun is just rising. But photographing the stone arches in Arches National Park in the dead of night without any people requires split-second timing—and during twilight, it is near impossible.

In Bryce Canyon National Park, you have to be careful not to fall victim to an overly enthusiastic photographer who wants to get right to the edge and pushes through with full physical effort—after all, not the entire cliff edge is fenced off.

Yet just driving into a park spontaneously and deciding on a whim where to hike was out of the question. Although Easter had just passed, several park rangers confirmed that it was now this crowded all year round.

We adapted our route. We looked for alternative tracks, including backcountry roads, and steered clear of several major highlights. We skipped the Grand Canyon, just across the state border in Arizona, partly because the North Rim was still closed for the winter and completely inaccessible. A pity, as this more remote section would surely have been a highlight too.

Utah is and remains beautiful, but it is well worth travelling entirely out of season—especially in autumn before it snows. Because as soon as the snow lands, everything is closed for the winter until late spring.

No welcome sign hangs along the wall, nor is there much else to indicate the next country – just tiny Mexican shops trying to sell the last authentic tacos to anyone passing by. The border guards make you feel that warmth and hospitality are no longer free of charge here.

The land of endless opportunities definitely does not welcome us with open arms – at least not at the Mexico–US land border – yet they let us in at least. And so, we drive down the highway straight into the future, into the Golden State of California.

A look back, a look ahead

They certainly know how to do museums, the US-Americans; that is the realization of the day. The USS Midway impressively demonstrates the sheer military might this country already possessed at the end of the Second World War. Veterans who actually served on the ship when the average age of the soldiers on board was barely 19 recount how the days in the brightly lit yet gloomy lower deck felt never-ending. Only the privileged aviators ever saw the sun, right when the aircraft were catapulted into the air. Things probably aren’t much different for young soldiers at sea today.

In the evening, a never-ending shooting star illuminates the sky over San Diego. But the largest vapour trail we have ever seen is not of natural origin. It is a Falcon 9 rocket. SpaceX is sending the next batch of Starlink satellites into orbit; just like every week, two 20-year-old night walkers explain to us. The very first day makes us realize: the tracks of the future are being laid here – whether we like it or not.

The journey back then turns into a genuine ghost train ride. Cora’s school friend, who grew up in LA, has organized everything: a quick hello via the app, the doors unlock, and we climb in. A silent intercom seems to whisper to us: “Make yourselves comfortable on the velvety soft leather seats of the Jaguar. Don’t forget to fasten your seatbelts.” The modern ghost, guided by sensors, radars, lidars, and cameras, accelerates and smoothly merges into the traffic.

The Waymo taxis are an absurd highlight. The creepy part isn’t how they drive – they drive shockingly correctly, defensively, and pleasantly. The truly spooky part is looking at the empty driver’s seat and seeing the steering wheel turn as if by magic. And yet, you get used to it far too quickly.

This sci-fi feeling fits perfectly with the colourful bustle around the Hollywood stars. On the Walk of Fame, we don’t stumble over any real celebrities due to the security presence, but it is a proper obstacle course dodging delivery robots rolling along the pavement like Wall-E.

Escaping to the General

In the evening, we are glad to be chauffeured home by a friend. Waiting for us there is the Chinese-Vietnamese mum with spring rolls – the best dinner we will have in the entire USA.

We are buzzing with new impressions of everything modernity has to offer. But after this high-tech world, we feel drawn right back to nature. We flee to where, for easily 2000 years, General Sherman has been watching over things to ensure everything is as it should be: to the giant sequoias in Sequoia National Park. It turns out we haven’t quite mutated into city people after all.

On the road with stragglers, leaping pupils and a rather skinny giant off Baja California

We are almost too late – and we feel it, too. But well, we are only almost too late. Most of the grey whales have already moved on by the time we arrive in the bay of Bahía La Almeja. The fisherman takes us out anyway. To where the sea flows into the bay. On the off chance, maybe one of these whales will show up after all.

The grey whale that is a straggler

During the summer months, the grey whales dedicate themselves to feeding in the nutrient-rich Bering Sea. But they spend the winter months in the warmer waters of Baja California. They give birth to their calves in the bays, because there they are protected from killer whales.

We head out to the entrance of the bay at full throttle. Long ocean rollers stretch along the coast towards Santa Margarita Island. In the middle, you can barely feel the swell, until a larger wave breaks prematurely after all. Our captain is constantly keeping watch – for the whales and for the waves.

Meanwhile, the peak season for humpback whales is in full swing. Along the southern coast of Baja California, splashing and slapping hits the water from all sides. The young calves are learning to leap, and the adults have to show them how it’s done.

Humpback whales can be found in all the world’s oceans. We have encountered them in Central America before, but we didn’t experience a spectacle quite like the one in Baja California there. The days fly by – or disappear with the current – as we look out at the water, constantly keeping watch for the active giants.

The calves, barely five metres long, are still acting clumsily, while the mother, nearly three times their size, literally catapults herself out of the water. A splash that we can still hear a kilometre away on the beach. The exact reason for the whale breaches is unexplained; it could be against parasites, as play, or for communication. But if that isn’t loud enough, they slap their fins. Individual slaps with the pectoral fin or the fluke onto the water’s surface sound almost like a belly flop from a three-metre diving board.

A song without end

Once we’ve seen more than enough from the beach, we venture out onto the water by boat. Ideally, we would have paddled out directly on our own SUPs or something similar, but there was nothing to be found. And there it is again: mother and calf swimming peacefully along with the currents. Every now and then, a male joins them. Mostly, they are tolerated by the mother cows for protection against killer whales. Because orcas simply like young whale calves – their favourite part is the tongue.

Humpback whales are also present underwater. Albeit far enough away that they can’t be seen, they can certainly be heard. Thanks to a specially shaped larynx, humpback whales can reuse once-inhaled air over and over again to perform long songs. Yes, exactly, entire songs – even with recurring verses. And they learn them from an early age, so that the same population sings the same song – despite the annual adaptation of the hit.

The clock that urges us to continue on

For hours – if not days – we gaze out into the water. The whales, dolphins, rays and fish, the sea lions and sea turtles, the seabirds and crabs provide the best entertainment. Boredom never strikes; it is only time that flies by in a whirlwind. The clock is ticking; it is time to move on.

It is with a heavy heart that we leave the beautiful beaches of southern Baja California. We set off in search of other giants, namely those from the world of plants. To do so, we must swap salt for dust. Fortunately, we know that at our destination, a plunge into the cold sea water awaits us once more.

Or a story about the green cow of Mexico.

The air smells slightly musty after the unexpected rain in a place where it rarely rains. The water falling from the sky has hijacked the power lines; there is no electricity. We are sitting at the bar in near darkness, a shot glass and four bottles of tequila before us. The mobile phone torch serves as a lampshade, the cap of one of the bottles sits on top, scattering the light romantically. We feel like we are in an underground bar in a gangster movie – the perfect place to talk about the unspeakable. And so we do.

José sits elegantly in a blue shirt behind the bar, his sombrero cast aside. He apologises for the lack of power and, with a smile peeking out from beneath his moustache, tells us the story of the Tequilería Casa Puntual. Seeing our keen interest, he also speaks of the reality of Mexico – particularly in a municipality where the mayor was arrested for corruption in January 2026, and where cars were set ablaze just a week before our visit following the death of Mexico’s biggest drug lord.

To understand what we are actually drinking, a look at the numbers helps: 900 million litres of tequila are produced annually. That is equivalent to roughly 360 filled Olympic swimming pools.

However, not everything is 100% tequila. Authentic tequila comes from within a 120-kilometre radius of the village of Tequila. About 20 000 litres are distilled annually in the village itself; the rest comes from the surrounding area, José tells us. Furthermore, 100% tequila may only be bottled in Tequila itself. Otherwise, the regulatory council steps in, as the name has a protected designation of origin – much like Champagne. Tequila is no longer just a drink; it is the flagship export of the Mexican economy.

The basis for this success is the agave, a low-maintenance member of the asparagus family. Yet, depending on demand, it can become a test of patience for any farmer: it blooms only once in its lifetime. As soon as its massive flower spike – reaching up to 12 metres in the Agave americana – shoots towards the sky, its fate is sealed. Shortly after, it dies. Consequently, the true art of tequila lies not in the cultivation of the plant, but in the distilling of the spirit.

A question of origin

Is it Tequila or Mezcal? Mezcal is hardly known abroad, yet the distinction is clear: every tequila is a mezcal (a spirit made from the agave plant), but not every mezcal is a tequila. While mezcal, made from various agave species, undergoes a single distillation process in the palenques, only the heart of the Blue Weber Agave (Agave tequilana) is permitted for tequila, and a double distillation is required. Aside from the white Tequila blanco, other varieties mature in wooden casks for up to three years.

But the world’s thirst is now so great that tequila is often diluted. For the pure drink, the bottle must state “Tequila 100% de Agave”. Otherwise, you are drinking 51% agave spirit mixed with other alcohols, distilled from cheaper options such as cane sugar, for example.

The Aztecs already appreciated the agave, though they mostly chewed on the fibres of the heart or used them to make fabrics. It was the Spaniards who brought the knowledge of distillation and began to burn transform the heart of the plant into a liquid.

It looks like the gateway to a calm, serene, sapphire-blue world. A world of the gods, perhaps just as the Maya imagined it.

You seem to glide weightlessly through the caverns. Where the sun’s rays touch the surface, the water turns turquoise. In the glow of the torches, however, it appears crystal clear; otherwise, there’s only total darkness.

No current, total silence, broken only by the mechanical hiss of the regulator. Were it not for the damp cold creeping into the wetsuit, you wouldn’t feel the water at all. And sometimes a small fish reminds us that we have dived into its world.

The beam of the torch cuts through the darkness. The air bubbles cling to the ceiling like silver Christmas baubles, reflecting the cold artificial light. There is no beginning and no end. As if the surroundings were reflected on the surface of a lake – only from below.

What are cenotes?

The older the cenote, the more likely it is that the ceiling has already collapsed, creating an opening to the surface. Younger cenotes are usually still found in caves, of which there are more than enough in Yucatan; estimates suggest there are over 7,000. Although most contain fresh water, at least in the upper part, there are cenotes where both sea water and fresh water are present, yet they do not mix due to their different densities.

The Mayan world is divided into three parts: the underworld, the earth and the heavens. All caves and caverns are regarded as gateways to the underworld, and although it is called the ‘place of fear’, the underworld is simultaneously a source of life, of the origin.

Researches identified the cenotes as sacred sites due to the many offerings they found in the caves, and even today, though rare, ceremonies are still held. Yet although human sacrifices were made, Xibalbá cannot be compared to the hell of the Christian faith.

It is not a hell, but a testing ground. The deceased pass through the nine levels into which Xibalbá is divided until, after trials, struggles and imposed sufferings, they are permitted to leave the place. The most direct route is via the Ceiba tree, Ceiba pentandra, a sacred tree that connects Xibalbá to the heavens through its roots, trunk and crown.

In fact, all the deceased must pass through the underworld; only those sacrificed, those who have sacrificed themselves, and women who die in childbirth travel directly to the gods in heaven.

Yet as awe-inspiring as the history of the Maya is, today’s reality at the water’s edge often looks far more mundane: it is a multi-million-dollar business.

Holy Tourists

Where priests once made sacrifices to the gods, souvenir shops now line the path to the water. The cenotes remain vital to survival, but no longer just for their drinking water; they are now tourist attractions. Unfortunately, things have reached the point where exorbitant entrance fees are charged, and these are constantly being raised. The owners’ argument? The tourists are willing to pay, so if they don’t like it, they should just visit cenotes abroad. There are indeed cenotes elsewhere, but the problem is that most (and the most impressive) are in Mexico.

Since we’re already in the area, we thought we’d go for a dive. We book a dive online. Most diving schools don’t even have an office you can pop into anymore. We opt for the cheapest deal: two dives in the same Dos Ojos cenote for 170 US dollars.

Almost cheap compared to other online offers. And not much less than the Galapagos, although there we also had a boat trip and lunch included. The value for money is really nowhere near justified in Quintana Roo.

In return, we get to spend the night for free at the fire station and leave the car safely parked there too. Definitely well worth it.

Near Valladolid, there’s a little-known gem: a campsite with a private cenote run by two German expats. We headed there – and weren’t disappointed.

This cenote is the complete opposite of Dos Ojos – not a tourist in sight. They’ve also created a unique entrance: down a spiral staircase, through a rock tunnel and across a (certainly not safety-certified) rope bridge, you descend into the earth’s interior.

There it lies beneath us, Cenote Xnuuk, in the middle of a cave. Only two small light wells let a few rays through at midday when the sun is at its highest point of the year. Fortunately, we no longer rely on daylight, as they have wired and lit everything up. The artificial light is what really brings the cave’s vastness to life. Inside, it’s always 28°C – and as it was so cold during our stay, it felt like a proper spa experience.

This is exactly how we imagined it. Drifting on clear water, alone in a cave. Amidst a silence that permeates everything, interrupted only by the splashing of condensed water droplets. As you watch the roots of the trees in search of the elixir of life, you almost feel as though you can see a Mayan god from Xibalbá venturing up into the world of the living.

The snake winds itself beautifully around the tree trunk. Another poses on a lush green leaf, with the Arenal Volcano in the background. Simply incredible, the perfect coincidence – or is it?

We have often wondered how it is that animals in photos always pose so beautifully – mind you, wild animals.

The answer? It’s sobering: the animals are placed exactly where people want them.

The methods behind the photo

With cold-blooded animals, there are particularly questionable methods: when they are chilled, they hardly move. There are even reports of limbs being suspended by threads. A famous photo of a frog riding a beetle was likely staged this way, as the two species are not active at the same time of day.

Bringing a jaguar into the right position in the wild is difficult – if not impossible. To give tourists a guaranteed sighting, providers resort to aids. Feeding stations are far more common than one might think.

We have also been offered a guaranteed sighting of a “wild” ocelot, or taken to a feeding site for tapirs; even the Orinoco crocodile is fed regularly so that it remains within the national reserve and isn’t killed outside its borders.

Feeding stations for birds are found almost everywhere: Bananas and sugar water are popular choices.

As long as tour operators can guarantee sightings, their income is secure. This leads to a dangerous set of expectations. Tourists want “wildlife photos”. In Costa Rica, the practice went so far that sloths, for example, were taken down from trees just for a “wildlife selfie”. The government launched an awareness campaign in 2019. Perhaps it helped. We didn’t experience anything of this sort ourselves, but we read about it.

With snakes, however, we witnessed a different side of the story.

The business of “perfect” nature

In Costa Rica, we came across a particularly negative practice: a photographer told us about providers who carry snakes around in boxes to position them in the perfect spot. We also came across a post on Facebook denouncing this exact practice.

And why? Simply to offer tourists the perfect picture. It would quite frankly be too exhausting to spend the night in the jungle without a guaranteed find – plus, you can’t see the volcano at night.

Unfortunately, this practice is quite widespread – even in countries like Costa Rica, where animal welfare is supposedly a high priority. What can then be expected from other countries that hardly care about it at all?

When conservation becomes a business

Costa Rica boasts pristine jungles, long beaches, two warm seas and hundreds of refreshing waterfalls. It enjoys a very positive reputation abroad as a pioneer in sustainability and the protection of its fauna and flora. In 2024, 25.5 % of the country’s land and 31% of its sea were under some form of protection.

It sounds like an advertisement from a travel magazine.

Some aspects of Costa Rica’s image are certainly true: there is barely any litter, and we repeatedly see animals as we drive through beautiful forests. Yet it is not entirely consistent.

This creates a habitat for wild animals. And the animals are not fearful, but rather curious. They come close, but they do not attack. Costa Rica has managed to ensure that monkeys and raccoons are not fed indiscriminately; so the animals let you get close, but do not attack. We were able to observe Capuchin monkeys eating up close for a while. In many national parks, it is prohibited to bring food and it is strictly controlled at the entrance.

Not all that glitters is gold. Here, too, nature conservation and the economy compete for dominance. Some examples:

Although sharks are protected, they are often caught as bycatch and subsequently sold. Between 2015 and 2020, 14 tonnes of shark fins were unloaded in Punta Arenas, most of which were exported to China. In 2017, the species was reclassified as a commercial animal rather than a wild animal, meaning it fell under fishery law. Although the Supreme Court declared this illegal, nothing has really changed (Mongabay).

There is also a risk that captured animals will be declared as re-exported, meaning the sharks will supposedly come from Nicaragua and only pass through Costa Rica en route to third countries. However, conservationists assume that the majority originate from Costa Rican fisheries.

In September 2025, fishermen took to the streets in San José to protest against a provisional export ban. A month later, the Administrative Court overturned it. Nature conservation, particularly marine conservation, remains a permanent contradiction in Costa Rica – the situation is not as positive as it is perceived abroad.

Are they a delicacy or a protected species? The paradox of turtle eggs

When travelling to Costa Rica, one of the first things you will see are images of freshly hatched turtles making their way to the sea. Turtle season occurs at some point each year almost everywhere in the country. There are hundreds of protection projects as sea turtles are a protected species.

However, turtle eggs are readily sold on the market, albeit not necessarily in tourist areas. The reasoning is simple: in some places, so many turtles arrive that subsequent arrivals destroy the nests. Since these eggs would otherwise be lost, it is better to collect and sell them.

This, however, leads to the eggs being considered a delicacy and being plundered at many other locations. To counter this, countless protection projects rely on volunteers. This creates another problem.

Projects worth the journey: between threats and hope in the Putumayo region of Colombia

We leave Ecuador – a country full of inspiring projects and definitely one of the most impressive on our journey through South America.

In Colombia, we venture across one of the border crossings that are considered ‘dangerous’ into the Putumayo region.

We don’t want to minimise the danger – it exists. Right at the border crossing, a policeman asks us if we don’t want to help him. He is standing in the rain and a little money for a drink would be welcome. We kindly say no – and he lets us into the country anyway. Welcome to Colombia, we think.

Caution and prejudice

There are hardly any other sources of income. Cattle farming, the timber industry and oil production drive the economy – and at the same time the destruction. The jungle hardly stands a chance.

In addition, there is drug trafficking and organised crime. This border area is a central gateway in the cocaine trade to Ecuador – and from there to the big, wide world.

The guerrillas held sway here for a long time. Despite the peace agreement, they have never completely disappeared. Although there are initial attempts to build a tourism network, the movement in the region, and in the country as a whole, is currently heading in the wrong direction: more fighting, more violence, more drugs.

In general, Colombia is changing again – unfortunately for the worse.