What It’s Like to Travel to a Destination That’s Not Touristy

Most of the time when we travel, we go to places that are used to seeing visitors from all over the world. Whether it’s a town full of backpackers, a romantic getaway for couples, or a family vacation hotspot, these destinations are built to accommodate travelers. Locals in these places are usually accustomed to foreigners—they might be friendly, but rarely surprised to see you. You blend in with the crowd.

And with that comes the infrastructure we’ve come to expect: hostels, resorts, Western food, money exchange counters, working ATMs, Wi-Fi, credit card payments, English menus, and endless cafés. These comforts make travel easy and familiar, but they also create a kind of buffer between you and the local culture.

But what happens when you travel somewhere that isn’t used to tourists at all? A place so untouched that it has no tourist infrastructure, where locals may go months—or even years—without seeing a single foreigner?

I’ve had the opportunity to visit a few of these places, and the experiences were unlike anything I’ve had in more popular destinations. The people, the interactions, and even the way you move through the day—everything feels more personal, more raw, and more impactful. Here are two experiences that stand out.

Socotra Island, Yemen: Remote, Rugged, and Remarkable

Socotra is a small island off the coast of Yemen and Somalia, known for its surreal landscapes and unique biodiversity. It’s truly one of the most incredible places I’ve ever seen—and also one of the most remote. While it’s slowly starting to appear on the radar of adventurous travelers, its isolation, the logistical difficulty of getting there, and its proximity to conflict zones mean that very few people actually make it.

And that’s what makes the experience so special.

There are no crowds. No long lines. No tourists trying to get the same photo. Most places we visited, we had entirely to ourselves—just us, the land, and the sea. But even more unforgettable than the scenery was the connection I formed with the people.

Although the few tour guides on the island are used to hosting travelers, they treated me not as a customer, but like a guest in their home. I traveled alone, but they never let me feel alone for a second. We danced to Socotri music, played games, shared countless cups of tea, and laughed like old friends. They were eager to show me not just the island, but their lives—inviting me to meet their friends, sharing stories, and making sure I felt included in every moment.

One morning, a local woman came down to our campsite. She was so excited to see me that she insisted my guide turn on music so we could dance together. We twirled barefoot in the sand, smiling and laughing, with no shared language but a mutual understanding that joy doesn’t need words. It was one of the most beautiful, spontaneous moments of connection I’ve ever had.

And on my last night on the island, I laughed until I cried. One of my guides spoke little to no English, but through gestures, facial expressions, and translation help, we were having the time of our lives. There was so much laughter, storytelling, and playfulness in the air that I felt like I was surrounded by old friends. That night didn’t feel like the end of a tour—it felt like saying goodbye to people I truly cared about.

It wasn’t just the guides, either. At gas stations, street stalls, campsites, beaches—wherever we went, locals smiled, waved, and often approached me with kindness and curiosity. Most didn’t speak English, but it didn’t matter. Through body language and warmth, we connected.

At the airport when I landed, a young boy and his father (who spoke no English) pointed to my luggage, picked it up for me, and walked me outside to meet my guide. On one of our first days, we arrived at a campsite where a family was having lunch. They immediately welcomed me to join. The mother, beaming, asked if I’d take a photo with her sons. They shared food and tea with me—just out of genuine hospitality. Moments like these happened over and over again.

In a place where tourism hasn’t taken over, every interaction felt human, not transactional. The kindness was unfiltered, and the experience was one I’ll never forget.

Central Java, Indonesia: Connection Through Curiosity

Another unforgettable experience happened in Central Java, Indonesia, where I spent a week in a small village outside the city of Temanggung, about two hours north of Yogyakarta. This part of Java receives almost no tourists, and it showed.

I was there through a volunteer program, staying with a host family and helping teach English in the local community. While my host family was used to interacting with travelers, many others in the area had never met a foreigner before.

Their reaction? Pure joy and excitement.

I happened to be visiting during Eid, when families open their homes to guests, and I was treated like one of their own. Every home I entered, I was offered tea, coffee, snacks, meals—everything. They made sure I was comfortable, happy, and full. But beyond the hospitality, there was something incredibly heartwarming about the curiosity and genuine enthusiasm they showed toward me.

Even people I passed on the street would light up. Some were so shy they’d giggle and whisper before gathering the courage to say a few words in English—or ask for a selfie. Others asked if their kids could take a photo with me, or if I’d join in on TikTok dances with their daughters. I must’ve taken hundreds of photos during that week—posing with families, young kids, school groups, shopkeepers, neighbors, and random strangers in town.

One day, I spent time with a young man in his mid-20s who wanted to improve his English for a cruise ship job interview. We spent the entire afternoon together—walking through the town, talking about life, goals, and travel. He was older than me, but his curiosity about the world, and especially about my life, was wide-eyed and beautiful. He asked thoughtful questions and listened intently, making me realize how powerful these seemingly small exchanges can be.

Back at the house, the kids who lived with my host family were fascinated by my iPad. They took turns using the Apple Pencil to draw all day, absolutely mesmerized. It was like magic to them. They weren’t just playing—they were genuinely inspired, excited, and engaged by something so simple to me, but so novel to them.

Another day, I spent hours with a young girl who was eager to learn more English. She gave me a full tour of her neighborhood, introduced me to her family, invited me to lunch—and by the end of the day, asked if I wanted to have a sleepover. She was just so excited to have a new friend. There was something so pure and wholesome about it. No expectations, just joy in connection.

On my last day in town, I took a taxi alone to the park where I’d catch the bus back to Yogyakarta. I sat quietly on a bench—but not for long. One by one, people started coming up to me to say hello and ask for photos. Eventually, a line formed. It was surreal, like I was some kind of celebrity, but not in a performative way. It felt like I was being honored—for showing up, for being curious, for simply being there.

What These Experiences Taught Me

Traveling to these remote, untouristy places reminded me of how incredibly lucky I am to have the freedom and privilege to explore the world. Most of the people I met had never left their hometown, let alone their country. Some had never seen a foreigner in person.

In popular tourist destinations, it’s easy to forget how special it is to meet someone from a completely different background. But in places where that doesn’t happen every day, it feels like magic—on both sides.

These trips gave me a deeper appreciation for the comforts I often take for granted: a sit-down toilet, running water, air conditioning, or the simple ease of hopping on a plane. But more than that, they showed me how connection and kindness can transcend language, culture, and even expectations.

There’s something powerful about being the only foreigner in a place—something humbling, vulnerable, and beautiful. It’s where you truly feel the weight of being welcomed, not just as a tourist, but as a guest.

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