In my twenties, travel was discovery. Not about luxury stays or checked off lists, but the quiet joy of street food, public transport, meeting new people and making friends. With limited holidays and a modest salary, every trip felt rare and entirely deserving.

That love hasn't completely disappeared, but it has undeniably changed. Now, travel feels heavier. Not emotionally, but logistically, environmentally, and ethically. It feels like consumption, and no matter how curated it looks, consumption rarely comes without cost.

When I moved to the mountains here in Manali, I simply wanted to live slower, to live better, and to contribute to something real and rooted. Most importantly, I didn't want to become just another consumer of these mountains.

So, I experimented. I opened a BnB in our home. It wasn't a business plan, just a thought: what if this space could invite people to travel differently? My vision was simple: no itinerary stress, no shallow "eco" branding. I wanted to make it as genuinely sustainable as possible, even knowing it couldn't be a zero-waste home on day one. It was about starting the journey.

I just wanted a home that asked guests to stay still, eat well, walk more, and waste less. I truly believed people were ready for that kind of shift.

Some were. Most, however, were not.

They brought the city with them. The relentless pace, the endless packaging, the need to be everywhere, do everything, in three days or less. Maggi was still romanticized, ubiquitous even. (and frankly, whoever brought this processed comfort food and popularized it in the mountains should reconsider their legacy).

They smiled and nodded at the idea of carrying back their waste but left it behind anyway. They worked from hilltops with four bars of network, but had no time to walk the trail right outside their window.

This wasn't slow living; it was simply the city with better views.

And it was not just the tourists. The locals responded too, not with reflection, but replication. Homestays mushroomed across slopes never meant for concrete. Soil gave way to cement. Forests gave way to "eco" resorts. Every peak season, the traffic choked these once-quiet hills.

Somewhere along the way, sustainability became an aesthetic. Bamboo straws. Beige and rustic interiors. Filtered water in steel jugs. It looked good. It felt good. But it did not change how we traveled.

Because travel, by its very nature, extracts. You burn fuel. You strain local systems. You add noise to quiet places. And you cannot truly balance that out by refusing a plastic spoon.

Eventually, I shut down the BnB. Not because I stopped caring, but because I stopped pretending there was a genuine market for what I had built. The truth I learned from those demanding weekends was that "sustainable" or "slow" travel, as I had idealized it, wasn't something you could simply offer and expect people to embrace.

You cannot sell slowness to people who do not want to pause.

This direct confrontation with the reality of traveler expectations, right here in my mountain home, profoundly changed me. The urgency to go everywhere faded. I no longer wanted to check off a list of places. I wanted to live in them, to stay longer, to let them shape my rhythm instead of constantly interrupting it. I still want to explore, I still have a list. But now I look at it differently. I think twice. Sometimes three times. Not because I feel guilty. But because I want it to matter. To the place. To me. To the planet.

If Not “Sustainable,” Then What? My Shift to Responsible Travel

The disillusionment from my BnB experiment, coupled with my deepening commitment to a slower life in the mountains, did not lead to cynicism. Instead, it sharpened my focus. If "sustainable travel" is a comforting fantasy, then what is the alternative that still allows us to move, explore, and connect without fooling ourselves?

For me, that answer is responsible travel.

This is not about perfection. It is about conscious choices. It is about minimizing harm and creating meaningful value, however small.

Here is what I have come to practice, not perfectly, but I try:

• Acknowledge your impact, without guilt-tripping. Every journey has a footprint. The first step is to see it clearly. Not to avoid it, not to justify it, but to own it.

• Choose smarter, not just greener. Can you take the train instead of a flight? Stay longer in one place to avoid constant transit? Walk instead of drive? Over time, this has also shaped who I travel with. It's hard and sometimes frustrating to share a journey with people who do not believe in responsible travel.

• Support local, genuinely local. Put your money directly into the hands of the community. Stay at local guesthouses, eat at small restaurants, hire local guides. Not everything needs to be “certified eco” to make a difference.

• Respect the place and people. Understand customs. Dress appropriately. Ask before photographing people. Do not disturb wildlife. Your presence is temporary; its impact should strive to be minimal.

• Reduce what you consume, drastically. Carry a reusable bottle. Refuse single-use plastics. Watch your energy and water use. These should be bare minimums.

• Educate yourself before you go. Understand the place’s challenges- environmental, social, or otherwise. Context makes you a better traveler.

  
  

Let’s Get Real About Our Journeys

The myth of “sustainable travel” either paralyzes us with guilt or tricks us into feeling accomplished. Both are useless. Let us shed the illusion. Let us admit that travel consumes. And in doing that, we might actually start making better choices even if they are smaller, slower, but more honest.

So the next time you plan a trip, do not ask yourself if it is sustainable.
Ask: How can I make this journey as responsible as possible?

It is a subtle shift. But it is the one that matters.