Mount Vesuvius killed roughly 2,000 people in 79 CE when it buried Pompeii under volcanic ash. Today, nearly three million tourists visit the site annually, snapping selfies where Romans once screamed.
Here’s the thing about volcano tourism: it’s booming, morally complicated, and nobody really wants to talk about the ethical quagmire we’ve created. Companies shuttle thousands of visitors daily to active craters in Hawaii, Iceland, Indonesia, and Italy. They’re selling danger as entertainment, which—fine—except the communities living in these volcanic shadows often see zilch from the revenue stream while absorbing all the environmental degradation and existential dread.
When Your Instagram Photo Funds Nothing Except More Helicopter Fuel
The economics get weird fast. In 2018, Guatemala’s Volcán de Fuego erupted and killed at least 190 people in nearby villages. Six months later, tour operators were advertising “thrilling proximity experiences” to the still-smoldering crater. The villagers rebuilding their homes? They weren’t seeing tourism dollars.
Wait—maybe that’s not entirely fair.
Some operations do it differently. New Zealand’s Māori-led tours around Rotorua’s geothermal areas return profits directly to indigenous communities who’ve lived alongside these geological blowtorches for centuries. The guides explain the spiritual significance of Ruaumoko, the god of earthquakes and volcanoes, before anyone gets near the bubbling mud pools. It’s tourism, sure, but it’s also cultural preservation with a business model that doesn’t extract everything and leave nothing.
Turns out the environmental impact alone should make us squirm. Helicopter tours over Hawaii’s Kīlauea spew carbon emissions while disrupting native bird populations. The 2019 White Island eruption in New Zealand killed 22 people—most of them tourists—and sparked massive debate about whether commercial tours to active volcanic vents should even exist. The answer from tour companies? “Managed risk.” The answer from volcanologists? “You’re insane.”
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Indonesia’s Mount Bromo sees thousands of visitors daily, many arriving at 3 AM to watch sunrise over the caldera. The local Tenggerese people consider the volcano sacred, performing annual Yadnya Kasada ceremonies where they toss offerings into the crater. Tourists mostly ignore this, trampling ceremonial paths to get better camera angles. The temples charge entrance fees, but the money rarely reaches the families whose ancestral lands have become geological theme parks.
There’s a responsible way forward, theoretically. Choose locally-owned tour companies. Visit during off-peak seasons. Don’t hire helicopters. Respect restricted areas even when they’re not activley enforced. Learn the actual history and cultural context instead of treating active geology like a backdrop for your travel influencer aesthetic.
The Democratic Republic of Congo’s Nyiragongo contains the world’s largest lava lake—a churning pool of molten rock that glows red against the night sky. Hiking permits cost $300, and armed guards escort tourists because the region remains politically unstable. But the Virunga National Park, which manages access, employs hundreds of local rangers and reinvests funds into gorilla conservation and community development.
That’s the model that actually works: tourism dollars staying local, environmental impact minimized, cultural heritage centered rather than commodified. Most volcano tourism fails this test spectacularly. We’re watching geological wonders while ignoring the human cost of our own curiosity—which is pretty much the story of modern travel, wrapped in sulfur dioxide and Instagram filters.
