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.”

I traveled to southern Brazil’s Atlantic Forest with a question that feels increasingly urgent: can ecotourism become a form of environmental education?

Often described as one of the most biodiverse — and most threatened — ecosystems in the world, the Atlantic Forest is typically framed through data, loss and policy debates. But in Morretes, I approached it differently: through immersion, sound and the people who live and work within it.

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

Morretes, a small colonial town in 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 depends on tourism — and on the health of the forest that surrounds it. Trains from Curitiba descend dramatically through the mountains, revealing dense green valleys before arriving in town. It’s a place where tourism and conservation are inseparable, making it an ideal setting to question what responsible tourism actually looks like.

Ekôa Park, where much of my reporting took place, lies within the territory of the Grande Reserva Mata Atlântica — the largest continuous stretch of preserved Atlantic Forest in the world, spanning nearly 3 million hectares across São Paulo, Paraná and Santa Catarina. The initiative brings together organizations, communities and tourism projects committed to sustainable development, promoting ecotourism as a tool for conservation rather than exploitation.

At the center of this model is Ekôa itself, an “edutainment” project founded by Tatiana Perim.

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

She pointed to a paradox: around 70% of Brazil’s population lives within the Atlantic Forest biome, yet few people truly know its biodiversity.

“We buy strawberries and blueberries at the supermarket, but we don’t know what a grumixama is,” she said. “We look outward. We need to look inward.”

Before entering the forest, visitors are asked to pause. A five-minute immersive projection serves as a kind of decompression from urban life — a transition from noise to attention.

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

Environmental manager Marilia Fernandes sees the shift daily.

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

At Ekôa, education does not begin with information, but with attention.

Visitors move through what the park calls a “corridor of the senses,” where the experience is deliberately slowed down.

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

Silence becomes part of the method.

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

For Fernandes, the impact of that learning is not easily measured.

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

Marilia Fernandes, Environmental Manager Ekôa Park in Morretes/Photo by Albori Ribeiro

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

Perim agrees.

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

Beyond the park, local guide Marcyo Lopez, who has worked in ecotourism in Morretes for more than two decades. He described how environmental awareness can be woven subtly into tours.

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

But the limits of tourism are never far from the conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

At Casa di Monte Ecolodge, owner Emilio Talamonti echoed that idea.

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

When tourism shifts toward pure consumption, he warned, something essential is lost.

“Maybe you make more money,” he said. “But the experience loses its value.”

Perim put it more bluntly.

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

As I left Morretes, I kept returning to one realization: the forest had not changed. The trails were the same. The silence was the same.

I was the one who had changed.

What this reporting ultimately revealed is that ecotourism, at its best, is not about entertainment. It is about learning how to belong — to a place, to an ecosystem, to a way of paying attention.

And in a world that has largely forgotten how to listen, that may be its most important lesson.