A kayak moves into one of Pichavaram’s narrow creeks. As we go deeper, the waterway gets smaller. Mangrove roots rise from the mud on both sides, while the branches above begin to form a canopy around us.
There is no walking trail here. The only way to explore this part of the forest is from the water.
As we paddle ahead, the wider channels slowly disappear. The trees grow thicker, the creek gets narrower, and the mangroves feel close enough to reach out and touch.
This is the part of Tamil Nadu’s Pichavaram village that tourists remember.
It is also the part that made me wonder what tourism here is really doing for the forest and for the people who depend on it.
Across India’s coast, mangroves are slowly becoming destinations in their own right. Visitors take boat rides through Bhitarkanika in Odisha, watch birds around Kadalundi in Kerala, kayak through the backwaters of coastal Karnataka and enter the maze-like waterways of Pichavaram in Tamil Nadu.
The appeal is easy to understand once you are inside one.
But there is a bigger question behind the experience: if tourists are willing to pay to see a healthy mangrove, can that money help the people living around it earn from protecting the forest?
A small part of India, doing a very big job
India has 4,991.68 sq km of mangrove cover, according to the India State of Forest Report 2023. That is only 0.15% of the country’s geographical area.
West Bengal has the largest share, followed by Gujarat and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Karnataka, in comparison, has just 14.20 sq km.
Their footprint may be small, but the work mangroves do is enormous.
Their roots slow waves and hold sediment together, helping protect vulnerable coastlines from erosion. Their creeks become breeding and nursery grounds for fish and other aquatic species. Their waterlogged soils can also store large amounts of carbon.
For people living beside these forests, mangroves can support fishing, protect shorelines and shape everyday livelihoods.
Tourism introduces another possibility.
What if a mangrove could generate income simply because people wanted to experience it alive?
When keeping the forest healthy begins to pay
You can already see glimpses of this in coastal Karnataka.
Around Saligrama and the backwaters of Udupi, tourists can kayak through mangrove-lined waterways and wetlands. A few hours on the water may mean income for a boat operator or guide. The same visitor may stay in a local homestay, eat nearby or buy something from a small shop.
The money starts moving through the community without requiring the mangrove to be cut or harvested.
Research suggests that this can support conservation when local communities genuinely benefit.
Too many visitors can disturb wildlife, damage vegetation, and add pressure through waste. Photograph: (Holidify)
A 2024 review published in the Journal of Environmental Management examined studies on mangrove ecotourism in Southeast Asia between 2010 and 2022. It found that activities including boat tours, wildlife watching, kayaking and mangrove planting were increasingly being used around these ecosystems.
Several studies linked tourism income with greater community participation in conservation and restoration.
But one condition kept appearing: local people needed to receive a meaningful share of the benefits.
That is where the idea becomes interesting for India.
What changes when a boat ride becomes a livelihood?
The Sundarbans offer one clue.
Economists Indrila Guha and Santadas Ghosh studied whether tourism could improve livelihoods in a remote island village in the Indian Sundarbans.
Tourism there was seasonal, and few households depended on it entirely. Still, people who worked as boatmen, guides and vendors were economically better off than those who did not participate in tourism.
The study also found that tourism-dependent households relied less on forest resources.
For a family living beside a protected forest, that matters. If guiding visitors, running boat trips or selling food becomes a meaningful source of income, there may be less pressure to depend directly on whatever can be taken from the forest.
But income has to be reliable enough to matter.
That thought came back to me halfway through my kayak ride in Pichavaram.
The extra Rs 500
Pichavaram lies between the Vellar and Coleroon estuaries in Tamil Nadu and is already one of India’s best-known mangrove tourism destinations.
Visitors can choose motorboats through the larger waterways or kayaks that can enter narrower creeks.
The kayaks showed us a completely different side of the forest. As the creek narrowed, the experience became slower, closer and far more immersive.
When we had booked the ride, however, we were told that we would be taken only up to a certain point.
Once we were already on the water, the boatman mentioned another place farther inside. It was, he told us, especially beautiful and had apparently been used as a shooting location.
If the narrow creeks are the most valuable, access should not be an informal add-on. Photograph: (Sriroopa Dutta)
We could go there too, he said, for another Rs 500.
My first reaction was irritation. Why was this being offered only after the trip had started?
But the more I thought about it, the more that small exchange began to reveal something larger.
Pichavaram is seasonal. When tourist numbers drop during the monsoon, boatmen and others who depend on visitors have fewer trips and fewer opportunities to earn.
If your income depends on who arrives that day, another Rs 500 from one group can matter.
The issue, then, becomes bigger than one informal charge. It points to a tourism system where the visitor does not always know what they are paying for, while the person taking them through the forest may not know how much they will earn that day.
What if the system worked differently?
Imagine arriving at Pichavaram and seeing clearly listed routes, prices and timings.
A visitor could choose a standard trip or a longer creek experience before getting into the boat. The boatman would know exactly how much of that fee he would receive. A fixed portion could go towards protecting the mangrove itself.
That money could help with restoration, waste management or monitoring. Sensitive creeks could be closed when needed. Visitor numbers could be capped in fragile stretches. Kayaks and other low-impact options could be encouraged where appropriate.
The tourist still gets the experience they came for. The boatman earns more predictably. The forest also benefits from every ticket sold.
That matters because tourism can damage the landscape it depends on.
Motorboats can bring engine noise, underwater vibration and the risk of fuel pollution. Too many visitors entering sensitive areas can disturb wildlife or damage vegetation. Waste and unmanaged footfall can add another layer of pressure.
A mangrove can support tourism only when tourism respects its limits.
What should remain after the tourist leaves?
Perhaps the success of mangrove tourism should be measured by something other than visitor numbers.
Are local residents earning fairly? Are boat numbers controlled? Are sensitive areas protected? Does part of the money tourists spend return to restoration and monitoring? And, over time, is the mangrove healthier?
India has already begun linking mangrove restoration with livelihoods through the Mangrove Initiative for Shoreline Habitats & Tangible Incomes, or MISHTI, launched in 2023.
That connection stayed with me after Pichavaram.
I remember paddling into those narrow creeks, with the mangrove closing around us and the wider world disappearing behind the bends.
I also remember the extra Rs 500.
One moment showed me why people would travel to experience these forests. The other showed me how much the people taking us there need tourism to work better for them.
Perhaps mangroves do not need tourists simply to arrive in greater numbers. They need a model in which every visit leaves something useful behind: a fairer livelihood for the people who live alongside the forest, and a stronger reason to ensure the mangroves remain standing when the next kayak enters the creek.
