I went looking for serenity and sunshine, but what I found instead was a mirror reflecting our modern obsession with looking “good” over doing good.
When you hear eco-resort in the Maldives, you probably imagine a guilt-free slice of paradise. Solar panels, compost bins, maybe a yoga deck built from reclaimed wood.
That’s what I pictured too, until I actually stayed in one.
On the surface, everything looked perfect. The resort was marketed as a model of sustainability, boasting “zero waste,” “reef-safe practices,” and “community integration.” But as the days went on, I started noticing small things that didn’t quite line up.
This isn’t about shaming the place. It’s about looking closely at how easy it is for “eco” to become a marketing label rather than a lifestyle, something I think we’ve all fallen for at some point.
Here’s what I noticed during my stay that made me question how sustainable “sustainable” really was.
1. Imported luxury disguised as eco-living
The first red flag appeared at breakfast.
The buffet had everything from avocados and blueberries to almond croissants and smoked salmon. It looked beautiful, but I couldn’t help thinking: Where on earth did all this come from?
In a country made up of tiny islands, importing that much food means long supply chains, high emissions, and packaging waste. Yet it was presented as “eco-luxury.”
There’s a contradiction there: the comfort we expect from luxury travel often depends on unsustainable habits. We fly across continents, stay in air-conditioned villas, and eat food that’s been shipped halfway around the world, all while congratulating ourselves for “choosing green.”
It’s not that I expected coconut rice every day. But I did expect the resort to highlight more local, seasonal ingredients instead of importing brunch trends from London and LA.
I realized how easy it is to confuse eco with aesthetic. The recycled wooden decor might look rustic, but behind it, there’s often a system still fueled by overconsumption.
2. Plastic-free marketing, but hidden waste
On day two, I noticed something that really stuck with me.
The resort proudly stated they were “plastic-free.” No straws, no bottles, no plastic bags. But behind the kitchen area, I saw staff unloading supplies, everything wrapped in layers of plastic film.
That’s when it hit me: the sustainability we see as guests is often curated for appearances.
According to a 2023 report by the United Nations Environment Programme, the tourism industry is a major contributor to single-use plastic waste , eight out of ten tourists visit coastal areas, and much of the plastic ends up polluting the ocean.
So while the resort could truthfully say it didn’t serve plastic to guests, it was still consuming it behind the scenes.
The irony was hard to miss. Guests were given bamboo toothbrushes in paper packaging, but somewhere out of sight, dozens of plastic crates and wraps were being discarded daily.
It reminded me of how easy it is, even in our own lives, to focus on visible actions that make us feel good, while ignoring the messy parts that no one sees.
3. Overwater villas that strain fragile ecosystems
My villa sat above crystal-clear turquoise water.
It was the dream, the kind of view you imagine when you picture the Maldives. But one morning, while sipping coffee on the deck, I watched resort staff cleaning the area beneath the villas with nets and hoses.
Apparently, guests often drop things into the water, plastic packaging, glass, food waste. And because these villas sit directly above coral reefs, the constant construction, foot traffic, and maintenance quietly disrupt marine life.
Coastal and reef-ecology studies in the Indian Ocean show that increased luxury resort infrastructure (especially over-water structures) creates both physical and acoustic stress on adjacent coral-reef systems.
Standing there, I realized the paradox: the beauty we come to admire is often the very thing we’re damaging by being there.
Even if resorts try to minimize harm, the act of building luxury over a living ecosystem leaves a mark that can’t easily be undone.
4. Constant AC and power use that felt impossible to offset
I’m used to warm climates. Growing up in Malaysia and now living in Dubai, I know how to handle humidity. But this resort? Ice-cold air conditioning everywhere.
The villas were chilled 24/7, even when guests were out. The gym, spa, and even the open-air restaurants had massive fans running non-stop.
When I asked one staff member about their “solar-powered” system, he laughed and said the panels only supported part of the resort’s power needs, “mostly the lights.” Everything else ran on diesel generators.
Diesel generators on a supposedly carbon-neutral island.
I couldn’t blame the staff. They were doing their jobs. But it did make me question how we define “eco.”
We’ve romanticized the idea of comfort so much that we forget sustainability sometimes means less comfort, not freezing hotel rooms in the tropics.
True sustainability doesn’t always feel luxurious. Sometimes it’s sticky, inconvenient, and a little uncomfortable, and that’s okay.
5. “Local employment” that wasn’t exactly local
Another big selling point was how the resort claimed to “empower the local community.” They highlighted this in their welcome booklet, emphasizing how “most of our staff are from nearby islands.”
But as I spoke to the employees, I learned many came from countries like Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and India. They were lovely people, hardworking, kind, genuine, but it made me think: are we redefining “local” to fit a marketing narrative?
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with hiring foreign workers. The problem is the illusion. The resort’s sustainability story relied on the idea of supporting Maldivian livelihoods, but the reality was much more complicated.
A young barista told me he hadn’t been home in over two years because his contract didn’t allow annual leave until his third year. He smiled as he said it, but that smile carried exhaustion.
It reminded me of how often companies stretch the meaning of words like ethical or sustainable until they lose their meaning.
6. Water that wasn’t as “pure” as promised
Every guest got a sleek glass bottle filled with “filtered seawater.” It sounded impressive.
But after a few days, I noticed the taste changing, slightly metallic, almost chemical. When I asked about it, one of the waiters quietly admitted that during peak occupancy, they had to mix filtered water with bottled mineral water “to keep up with demand.”
Again, I didn’t feel angry, just curious. It showed me how difficult it is for even the most well-intentioned places to stay consistent.
We all want things to run smoothly, but sustainability isn’t about convenience. It’s about limits. And when luxury meets limitation, the truth often gets blurry.
The reality is that no place can run perfectly off “natural resources” when hundreds of guests demand constant comfort. And that’s where most eco-promises quietly fall apart.
7. Nature walks that felt more like photo ops
One afternoon, I joined the resort’s “eco tour,” a guided walk through the island’s mangroves and conservation areas.
It started beautifully. The guide spoke passionately about native plants and coastal erosion. But halfway through, the group began taking selfies, climbing trees, and walking off the trail for better angles.
I remember thinking, This was supposed to be about respect.
Even the guide eventually gave up trying to redirect people. It turned into a photoshoot, and by the end, I saw more footprints than appreciation.
That moment summed up so much of modern tourism for me. We want to see nature, but not necessarily live in harmony with it.
We’re quick to consume experiences, even the “eco” kind, without realizing how that hunger to document everything changes how we interact with the world.
8. The guilt-free illusion of “eco” travel
Before I left, the resort gave each guest a certificate stating how much “carbon we saved” by staying there.
It listed numbers I didn’t really understand, something about renewable offsets and reef rehabilitation. It looked official, but it felt hollow.
As someone who’s worked on being more conscious in daily life, recycling, reducing waste, cooking at home, it made me uncomfortable how easily eco-resorts can turn awareness into a product.
We can’t buy our way into a clean conscience. But the travel industry keeps selling that illusion because it works.
Before flying back to Dubai, I looked out the plane window at the small islands below. Stunning, fragile, and shrinking. And I couldn’t help thinking: sustainability isn’t something a resort can sell. It’s something we practice every day, quietly and imperfectly.
Final thoughts
That trip taught me something important.
We love the idea of sustainability, but we also love comfort, convenience, and beauty. And often, the two clash in ways we don’t want to see.
I’m not saying don’t visit eco-resorts. Travel opens our eyes. But I’ve learned that being a responsible traveler means asking better questions about where our food comes from, who our comfort depends on, and what “eco” really means.
Because real sustainability isn’t a label, it’s a mindset.
And that mindset travels with us, long after we’ve left paradise.
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