I’ll never forget the first time I saw an elephant lumber past me, free of chains, munching on a watermelon I’d just handed over. It hit me: this is what travel should feel like—raw, real, and respectful. Not the sanitized version we see on Instagram, not the manufactured experiences that tour companies sell in glossy brochures. Just me, standing awkwardly with juice-sticky hands, watching three tons of gentle gray giant amble by close enough that I could feel the breeze from her swishing tail.
That moment changed everything I thought I knew about animal tourism.
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Nestled in the misty hills of Northern Thailand, Elephant Nature Park (ENP) stands as a sanctuary not just for the dozens of elephants it has rescued, but for the very concept of what tourism could and should be. Founded by Lek Chailert—a tiny woman with a lion’s heart whom National Geographic once dubbed “The Elephant Whisperer”—ENP has spent decades rescuing elephants from logging operations, street begging, and yes, the countless riding camps that dot Southeast Asia’s tourist trail.
I’ve been traveling and blogging for nearly a decade now, documenting everything from luxury resorts to backpacker hostels across five continents. I’ve ridden camels in Morocco, swum with whale sharks in the Philippines, and—I’ll admit it—I once climbed atop an elephant in India without asking the right questions. I’ve seen wildlife tourism at its worst: drugged tigers for selfies, performing monkeys on chains, and elephants swaying in distress while tourists climb aboard. But I’ve also witnessed its best: rehabilitation centers that genuinely put animals first, conservation efforts funded by thoughtful tourism, and places like ENP that are quietly revolutionizing how we interact with the wild world.
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This isn’t just a story about a really cool place to see elephants. It’s about what happens when we travel with our eyes fully open, when we demand better from the industry, and when we recognize our power as travelers to either heal or harm. My time at Elephant Nature Park didn’t just change how I view elephant tourism—it transformed how I approach travel itself.
The Road Less Traveled
“How much farther?” asked a nervous American college student beside me as our van bounced over yet another pothole. The driver just smiled in the rearview mirror. “Mai pen rai,” he said. “No worries. Almost there.”
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The journey to ENP begins in Chiang Mai, Thailand’s laid-back northern capital. Our van lurched out of the morning traffic, past Buddhist temples and coffee shops, and gradually, the urban sprawl thinned. Rice paddies replaced concrete. Mountains rose up to meet us. The air coming through the open windows smelled of earth and green things growing.
The road twisted through tiny villages where chickens scattered before our tires and children waved from doorways. I couldn’t help but wonder what awaited us beyond the next bend. Would the sanctuary be what I hoped, or just another disappointing attempt at “ecotourism” that missed the mark?
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Two hours and a lifetime away from Chiang Mai, we turned onto a dirt road. The first thing I noticed wasn’t elephants at all—it was dogs. Dozens of them, lounging in patches of sun, wagging tails in greeting. (I later learned that Lek rescues just about everything, from cats and dogs to water buffalo.)
And then I saw them—elephants. Not in lines giving rides, not performing tricks, but simply… being. An elderly elephant using a tree as a back-scratcher. A mother and baby grazing side by side. A group splashing in a distant river.
“Welcome home,” said our guide, Sai, as if we belonged here too.
I’d chosen ENP after months of research, after reading horror stories about phajaan—the “crushing” process used to break elephants’ spirits for tourism and logging. I’d seen Lek’s TED talks, read about her Goldman Environmental Prize, and followed ENP’s rescue stories online. I wanted more than just a cool vacation story; I wanted to put my money where my values were.
As we stepped out into the sunshine, I realized this wasn’t going to be like any animal encounter I’d ever had.
A Day Among Giants
Dawn at ENP breaks with a symphony—birds, distant roosters, and the low, rumbling calls of elephants greeting the day. For overnight visitors (which I highly recommend), this natural alarm clock is your first hint that you’re somewhere truly special.
The morning routine centers around food—mountains of it. Elephants eat up to 10% of their body weight daily, which means the sanctuary goes through literal tons of fruit, vegetables, and greens. As visitors, we gathered around long tables, chopping watermelons, peeling bananas, and loading baskets with pumpkins and cucumbers.
“Mae Perm is our oldest,” Sai explained as we approached a feeding platform. “She’s almost 90 now.”
I tossed a pumpkin to the elderly elephant, and she caught it like a pro—trunk curling with a grace I didn’t expect from a creature so massive. Her skin felt like ancient bark beneath my palm when she reached toward me for more, her trunk exploring my pockets in case I was holding out on her.
What struck me most was the absence. No hooks or painful prods to control the elephants. No chains restricting movement. No tourists climbing aboard for rides. The mahouts (elephant caretakers) guided with gentle words and occasional hand signals, but mostly, they just watched, stepping in only if necessary.
“You know, I always thought riding an elephant was just… what you did in Thailand,” confessed a British couple sharing my feeding station. “We had no idea about what it takes to make them submissive enough for that.”
Neither did I, once upon a time. The uncomfortable truth is that elephants don’t naturally let humans ride them. They must be “broken” through a process often involving separation from their mothers as babies, confinement in small spaces, and physical punishment. It’s a brutal reality that most tourists never see behind those vacation photos.
Mid-morning, we followed the herd to the river. Elephants love water, and watching them submerge—trunks raised like snorkels, massive bodies suddenly buoyant—was pure joy. A juvenile named Navann (meaning “wild one” in Thai) lived up to his name, splashing everyone in sight, including us mud-spattered observers on the bank.
“He was born here,” Sai told me. “One of our success stories. His mother was rescued from a trekking camp when she was pregnant. He’s never known chains or hooks.”
Not all the stories were so happy. During lunch—a delicious spread of Thai vegetarian dishes served buffet-style in the open-air dining hall—we learned about Jokia, a blind elephant who had lost her sight when her former owner punished her for stopping work after she miscarried while pulling logs uphill.
“She only trusts one other elephant now—Mae Perm, our old lady,” Sai said. “They’re always together. Mae Perm acts as Jokia’s eyes.”
Sure enough, watching them later that afternoon, I noticed how the older elephant always seemed aware of her blind friend, positioning herself so Jokia could follow her sounds and scent, guiding her to the best grass patches.
The sanctuary employs dozens of local staff, from mahouts (many of whom once worked in logging or riding camps) to kitchen workers and maintenance crews. I chatted with a young volunteer coordinator named Som while helping prepare afternoon snacks for the elephants.
“Before I came here, I worked at a hotel in Bangkok,” she told me, expertly slicing a pineapple. “Good money, but no heart. Now I make less, but I go home feeling proud.”
That seemed to be a common thread—people finding purpose in this work, whether they were Thai staff or international volunteers staying for weeks or months.
“We’re full for the next six months,” Som said when I asked about volunteering. “People come back year after year. Some never leave!”
Watching the easy rhythm between humans and elephants, I understood the pull.
Beyond the Selfie: What Sustainable Tourism Really Means
The term “sustainable tourism” gets thrown around a lot these days—slapped on brochures for places that are anything but. At its core, it means travel that respects local environments, supports communities, and causes minimal harm. It means thinking beyond your Instagram feed to the impact your choices have long after you’ve flown home.
For elephant tourism, the sustainability bar is clear: no riding, no unnatural behaviors, no captive breeding for tourism purposes, and environments that allow these highly social animals to form natural family groups and behaviors.
“It’s not just about snapping a selfie with an elephant,” Lek herself told visitors during an afternoon talk. “It’s about knowing your money isn’t funding cruelty.”
The dark reality is that elephant tourism in Thailand and much of Southeast Asia remains deeply problematic. For every Elephant Nature Park, dozens of camps offer riding and performances. Tourists queue up, often unaware that the docile elephant beneath them likely endured brutal training and may be working while injured, malnourished, or psychologically distressed.
The irony? Most visitors genuinely love elephants. They wouldn’t participate if they knew the truth, but the industry excels at hiding its shadows. “They’re treated like family,” tour operators insist. “This is traditional Thai culture,” they claim, though elephants were historically used for logging, not entertainment.
What makes ENP different isn’t just its no-riding policy—it’s the ripple effect it creates. The sanctuary employs mahouts who might otherwise work in exploitative camps. It buys tons of produce from local farmers, creating an agricultural market that doesn’t depend on growing crops for export. It hosts researchers studying elephant behavior and healthcare. It shows thousands of visitors annually that there’s a better way.
“Five camps in this area have converted to observation-only models in the last decade,” Sai told me proudly. “They saw our visitors, saw our success, and changed.”
My own perspective shifted too. I’d always considered myself a conscious traveler, but ENP made me question every animal encounter I’d ever had. Had I really researched that dolphin tour in Bali? Did I ask the right questions at that wildlife sanctuary in Costa Rica? Was I traveling to learn and connect, or just to collect experiences like souvenirs?
I realized sustainable tourism isn’t about perfection—it’s about awareness and better choices, one trip at a time.
Your Visit, Their Future: Planning Tips
If ENP sounds like your kind of place (and I hope it does), here’s what you need to know:
Book well in advance. ENP’s reputation has grown, and spots fill quickly, especially during high season (November through February). I booked my overnight stay three months ahead and almost didn’t get in.
Choose your experience. Options range from single-day visits (about $80 USD) to overnight stays and weeklong volunteer programs. If you can swing the overnight, do it—the park transforms when the day-trippers leave, and early mornings with the elephants are magical.
Pack strategically. Bring quick-dry clothes you don’t mind getting dirty, good walking shoes, a hat, sunscreen, mosquito repellent, and a reusable water bottle. Leave the fancy outfits at your hotel; you’ll be covered in mud and elephant slobber within hours.
Prepare emotionally. Visiting ENP is joyful but can also be intense. The elephants’ rescue stories are often heartbreaking, and seeing their scars—both physical and behavioral—brings home the reality of animal tourism’s dark side. Allow yourself to feel it all.
Respect boundaries. The golden rule at ENP is simple: the elephants set the terms of engagement. Sometimes that means watching from a distance if an elephant is having a bad day or needs space. No petting on demand, no guaranteed trunk selfies. It’s their home, not a petting zoo.
Listen to the guides. They know each elephant’s personality, triggers, and comfort zones. When they say step back, step back—not because the elephant is dangerous, but because respecting their autonomy is the whole point.
Extend your impact. Research other animal experiences with the same critical eye. Ask questions: Can the animals choose not to interact? Do they have space to express natural behaviors? Would they naturally be doing what they’re being asked to do? The answers tell you everything.
“We don’t want to be the only sanctuary,” Lek told us. “We want to be the example that changes the industry.”
The Elephant in My Room: Reflection and Growth
On my last evening at ENP, I sat on the viewing platform overlooking the river. The day visitors had gone, and a peaceful quiet settled over the sanctuary. Elephants grazed in family groups across the valley, moving with the unhurried pace of creatures living on elephant time.
I thought about the younger version of me—the one who’d climbed onto an elephant’s back in India years ago, who’d been thrilled by proximity to wildness without questioning what made that proximity possible. I’m not proud of that memory, but I don’t bury it either. We all start somewhere on the journey to more ethical travel.
“I used to chase the thrill of ‘doing it all,'” I wrote in my journal that night. “Now, I’d rather do less, but do it right.”
The truth is, ethical travel often means saying no to experiences you might have once said yes to. It sometimes means missing out on what everyone else is doing. But it also means gaining something far more valuable—the knowledge that your adventure didn’t come at someone else’s expense.
Places like ENP represent a hopeful shift in tourism. As travelers increasingly vote with their wallets, choosing observation over exploitation, more businesses will follow. It’s already happening—throughout Thailand and beyond, camps are transitioning to sanctuary models, retiring their trekking seats and bullhooks.
Elephants, with their complex social structures and remarkable intelligence, serve as powerful ambassadors for this shift. If we can transform how we interact with these magnificent animals—creatures we’ve exploited for centuries—perhaps we can change our relationship with all the wild spaces and beings we encounter in our travels.
Full Circle
As the sun set on my final day, I watched the elephants make their way to their nighttime shelters. Not cages—open-sided barns with room to move, filled with fresh hay. Jokia and Mae Perm walked trunk-to-tail, the blind elephant following her friend’s lead with complete trust. Navann raced ahead of his mother, then doubled back when he realized she wasn’t keeping up with his youthful enthusiasm.
These moments—quiet, unperformed, authentic—were worth infinitely more than any contrived elephant experience. No tricks, no shows, just the privilege of witnessing elephant life unfold on elephant terms.
Lek joined me on the platform, her small frame belying the enormous change she’s created in the industry.
“You know,” she said, watching her rescued herd, “when I started, people said it would never work. Tourists want to ride, they told me. They want to see tricks. But I believed travelers are better than that. They just need to know the truth.”
She was right about me, at least. And I suspect she’s right about most of us.
Next time you’re plotting a trip, skip the circus. Head to Chiang Mai instead, to a place where elephants trumpet freely and humans are the ones who learn new tricks. You won’t regret it. Happy travels—and may they be kind ones.