In Brazil’s Atlantic Forest, Tourism Becomes a Lesson in Belonging

The road to Morretes does something to you. “The closer you get, the quieter everything becomes. Signal drops. The air changes, and without realizing it, you start paying attention.”

For her final project in Journalistic Storytelling, DMJX student Nathalia Teixeira traveled to southern Brazil’s Atlantic Forest to explore a question that feels increasingly urgent: Can ecotourism become a form of environmental education?

The Atlantic Forest is “one of the most biodiverse ecosystems in the world and one of the most threatened,” Teixeira narrates in the opening of her audio piece. Rather than approaching conservation through statistics or policy debates, she chose immersion — telling the story through sound, reflection and voices from within the forest itself.

“I came here to understand how ecotourism can work as education — not in classrooms, but through experience.”

Morretes, a small colonial town in the state of Paraná, sits between the Serra do Mar mountains and the Atlantic coast. Known for its historic architecture, riverfront charm and traditional 'barreado' stew, the town is both a gateway to the forest and a place shaped by it. Trains from Curitiba descend dramatically through the mountains into Morretes, offering sweeping views of dense green valleys. The city lives from tourism — but it also depends on the health of the surrounding Atlantic Forest, making it an ideal setting to question what responsible tourism truly means.

At the center of her story is Ekôa Park, an “edutainment” project founded by Tatiana Perim. Perim describes the park as something more than a tourist attraction.

“Ekôa was created as an edutainment park — education through emotion and experience — to reconnect people with the environment around them,” Perim says. “We need to be present. To notice. To respect.”

The paradox she highlights is striking. “Around 70% of Brazil’s population lives within the Atlantic Forest biome, yet very few people truly know its biodiversity,” Perim explains. “We buy strawberries and blueberries at the supermarket, but we don’t know what a 'grumixama' is. We look outward. We need to look inward.”

Rather than offering traditional explanations of flora and fauna, Ekôa interrupts visitors’ routines before they even enter the forest. Guests first experience a five-minute immersive projection — a sensory decompression from urban life.

“It touches their hearts,” Perim says. “It enchants them. It prepares them to be here.”

Environmental manager Marilia Fernandes sees this transition every day.

“People arrive agitated, carrying the city with them,” Fernandes says. “After the screening, they’re calmer. More open.”

Education here, Teixeira observes in her narration, “doesn’t begin with information. It begins with attention.”

Visitors then pass through what the park calls a “corridor of the senses.”

“The sensory corridor invites you to open yourself,” Fernandes explains. “To smell the forest. To listen to the river. To notice the birds.”

Silence itself becomes pedagogical.

“We try to enchant people,” Perim says. “When they lower their guard, they open themselves. And if they’re open, they might learn.”

In one of the most powerful reflections in the piece, Fernandes challenges conventional notions of measurable learning:

What matters is that, for a moment, they connected with this place

Marilia Fernandes, Environmental Manager Ekôa Park in Morretes

“Children won’t remember the name of the bird,” she says. “That’s not the point. What matters is that, for a moment, they connected with this place.”

For Perim, even the smallest shift is enough.

“If someone leaves having learned one thing — just one — that’s already success.”

Teixeira extends this exploration beyond Ekôa Park. Local guide Marcyo Lopez, who has worked with ecotourism in Morretes for over 20 years, describes how environmental awareness can be woven quietly into tours.

“We include environmental education naturally,” Lopez says. “When you add it all up, it becomes something meaningful.”

But the story also confronts the limits of tourism. Fernandes raises a crucial question:

“It’s not about bringing a million people to a waterfall,” she says. “Can the waterfall handle that? What happens to the water, the trail, the animals?”

Responsible tourism, she argues, must balance income with protection.

“It has to generate income — but also protect the forest.”

Perim calls ecotourism a “unique strategy,” but only under strict conditions.

“Ecotourism can support conservation and create jobs,” she says. “But only if it’s responsible. Only if there is intention.”

At Casa di Monte Ecolodge, owner Emilio Talamonti echoes this philosophy.

“Hosting people isn’t just about giving them a room,” he says. “It’s about offering an experience with nature.”

When tourism shifts from experience to consumption, however, the consequences are stark.

“Maybe you make more money,” Talamonti admits. “But the experience loses its value.”

Perim’s warning is even more direct.

“If tourism becomes only consumption,” she says, “I see destruction. I see rivers full of plastic. I see catastrophe.”

For Teixeira, this project became more than an exploration of sustainable tourism. It became a reflection on listening — as a journalist and as a participant.

“As I leave Morretes, I realize something,” she narrates at the end. “The forest didn’t change. The trails didn’t change. The silence didn’t change. I did.”

Her closing insight reframes ecotourism entirely:

“Here, ecotourism isn’t about entertainment. It’s about learning how to belong. And in a world that has forgotten how to listen, that can be the most important lesson of all.”

Through immersive storytelling, layered sound and reflective narration, this DMJX project demonstrates how journalism can move beyond reporting to facilitate reconnection — not only between audiences and ecosystems, but between experience and understanding.