The Holy Pilgrimage of White Enlightenment... Or How Whiteness Travels
Have you seen it? The wild, spiritual, wandering whiteness—loose in the tropics with a passport and a purpose. Smartphone in hand. Reusable water bottle. Cork yoga mat, extra thin for traveling. An eye for aesthetics, and a stomach unaccustomed to spice. It’s not hard to spot.
It’s the voice behind you that declares, “This place is so poor,” a mix of disgust and surprise paired with sensational lust, as if poverty were a charming travel feature. An adventure to be explored from the comfort of generational wealth and the height of an air-conditioned SUV, whose rental costs more than the six months' income of the people smiling and waving from the roadside.
It’s the one holding its pocket tight, gazing through $200 sunglasses, and asking, “Is it safe here?”—tightening its grip on its phone while walking past a man with no shoes. A Black or Brown man. Because a white man walking barefoot is usually just an Australian dude called Oliver, an “expat.” Totally safe.
Whiteness travels differently. It doesn’t visit, it occupies. It lands, lays claim, then cries “injustice” when the Wi-Fi is weak, the Uber is late, or there’s no oat milk available. It sees everything through its white lenses, always comparing to white norms. And white norms are the ultimate standard for… the universe.
It comes to “explore,” but it’s already made up its mind. Especially about the people. Their character. Their culture. Their spirituality. Even their sex. And absolutely about their supposed simplicity. It knows everything—thanks to half a chapter in a Lonely Planet, a documentary by a white couple called Wolfgang and Christine, and a lifetime of inherited bias and racist ideology back home.
Whiteness learns two words in the local language. Usually “hello” and “thank you,” and tells everyone how “happy they are when you speak their language,” as if basic effort were a saintly act. A pat on the back for being so aware. All while it not infrequently mocks other people’s accents. “Simple” people who never studied but speak five languages fluently and are currently learning a sixth, just to comfort the tourists.
It usually refers to entire populations as “they.” “They’re so happy.” “They’re so laid back.” “They’re always late.” “They’re so friendly.” Whiteness loves data—especially the kind backed by zero cultural understanding, exchanged between bites of Nasi Goreng and the next sound healing session. Or sandwiched between goddess flow meditation and Pad Thai.
It posts selfies captioned “with the locals”—none of whom agreed to be extras in the documentary. It marvels at “how little they have,” while enjoying a $20 smoothie bowl prepared by someone earning $2 a day. Then turns to a $1 beachside necklace and declares, “That’s too expensive.”
It calls poverty humbling. A spiritual teacher. But not for itself, of course. That lesson is always for someone else. Whiteness never asks: Would poverty make me happier? Would I be more authentic if I couldn’t afford healthcare, travel, food, a $90 Lululemon yoga mat?
It complains. Oh, how it complains.
“They don’t speak English.”
“The beds are too hard.”
“Why are there so many bugs?”
“Why don’t they clean up the trash?”
“Why are there ruins just... lying around?”
“Why does this take so long?”
“How can they live like this?”
“Where’s the manager?”
It flies 10,000 kilometers for “authenticity,” then spends the entire trip hunting down Western-owned yoga studios and avocado toast in Mike-from-the-Netherlands’ new fusion restaurant. It visits Black and Brown countries and calls them “foreigners” the second it steps off the plane. It walks through markets like they’re open-air anthropology museums. It touches fabrics, fruit, and hair—without asking. It photographs Black and Brown children like rare butterflies: beautiful, exotic, unaware.
It discovers “hidden” places like it’s the second coming of Vasco da Gama—weirdly, both verbally and sometimes literally, putting itself in line with its colonizer ancestors who claimed to “discover” lands where people had already been living… forever. It takes “inspiration” from traditional crafts, repackages “healing techniques” copied from POC communities, and calls it wellness. It “finds itself” in someone else’s sacred space, takes ayahuasca and anything labeled “ancient wisdom,” and turns it into a retreat package with link in bio. Always sold with a sun-kissed smile and an open heart.
Whiteness arrives in Zara and leaves in Lululemon. Takes yoga in India and posts “namaste, bitches” in millennial pink. Does a retreat in Kenya and proclaims “Africa changed me,” without a single thought about how colonialism changed Africa first. It romanticizes what it doesn’t understand.
Bali becomes “paradise”—a spiritual haven with perfect vibes for spiritual seekers, while locals face housing crises, wage suppression, and the waste left behind by millions of “mindful” tourists.
Kenya becomes an adventure, a place to “feel and be real”, while Kenyan women flee economic despair only to become domestic slaves in Saudi households.
Dubai is the new hot spot. Part detox, part soft launch for your coaching brand—built on the backs of South Asian workers laboring in 50°C heat with no passport, no rights, and no Instagram feed.
Costa Rica—the wellness utopia for Stefans with their families and former finance folks from Frankfurt, now into spiritual coaching and the Pura Vida. Where rainforest is cleared for jungle lodges, locals are priced out of their own towns, and colonizers rebrand themselves as barefoot founders and spiritual lifestyle coaches.
And the list doesn’t stop there—Sri Lanka, Peru, Morocco, Thailand… the pilgrimage continues.
Whiteness mistakes access for welcome. Privilege for invitation.
“Global citizen,” it says, while demanding a wholegrain gluten-free bun in a country that doesn’t eat bread. “Soul-aligned,” it proclaims while unaligning ecosystems. “Healing,” it whispers, while dumping someone else’s healing into the forgotten places folder.
When someone mentions colonialism, whiteness shifts uncomfortably. “That was a long time ago.” “Let’s focus on the positive.” Or better yet:“I don’t see color – I see people.”
Of course Whiteness is aware of injustice. It offers free yoga classes at 10 a.m. local time to marginalized communities—teaching them to reconnect with their roots and be healthier and happier. So what more do you want?
By now, you’ve figured it out.
Whiteness isn’t a person. It’s a system, a playbook, a silent current that moves through everything. A traveler, but only in the lightest sense. It never carries its own history, preferring instead to leave that weight to those who’ve always had to carry it.
It floats from Bali to Tulum, Goa to San Diego, Chiang Mai to Costa Rica. Always hunting for the new, the exotic, the “authentic”. When it arrives, it breathes in deeply, smiles, and declares: “This place feels so... transformative.”
And the cycle continues.
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Gracias. Thank you. Jërëjëf. Merci. Obrigada. Danke. Arigatō. Medaase. Grazie. Hvala. Tack. Asante. Shukran. Teşekkürler. Dziękuję.
