Some navy guys I met at dinner in Tuvalu asked, half-joking, whether I was there to “get my passport stamped.” They weren’t surprised when the answer was yes.
That’s the honest reality of Tuvalu: most people who visit are country counters, Nomad Mania devotees, or people working their way through every nation on earth. It receives fewer than 3,000 visitors per year and genuine tourists aka people who just really wanted to go to Tuvalu, are a bit of a myth.
So is it worth going? Here’s my honest answer. And it’s not entirely the one you’d expect.
For the full practical guide on getting to Tuvalu, where to stay, and everything you need to know before you go – read this first.
A nation already in the process of leaving
Here is what I learned during my visit. Tuvalu is one of the most climate-vulnerable countries on earth. The highest point on the island is a few metres above sea level. By 2050, half of Funafuti is projected to flood at high tide. By 2100, under current emissions trajectories, Tuvalu could experience flooding every single day, making the islands effectively uninhabitable well before they disappear beneath the surface.
The Tuvaluan government has signed the Falepili Union with Australia, offering 280 Tuvaluans permanent residency in Australia per year, which is around 2.5 percent annually. When combined with existing New Zealand pathways, close to 4 percent of Tuvalu’s population could migrate each year. Within a decade, close to 40 percent of the population could have left. Tuvalu’s population, estimated at around 9,400, is already declining.
The climate change headlines frame this as a future threat. And when you see social media trying to influence you to visit, it’s often through the lens of ‘Tuvalu won’t be here soon, see it before it disappears’. But being there tells a different story. The family I stayed with at my Airbnb were Tuvaluan natives, but most of them, all three generations, had moved to New Zealand. They came back to Funafuti for several weeks each year, gathering with other island families, reconnecting with home. They talked proudly about the opportunities the younger generation were getting abroad, from education to careers and futures that simply weren’t available on the tiny Pacific atoll.
Sitting in at the dinner table watching them reconnect, with noise, food, and children running around, I understood that there is so much more to this than the rising sea level story. This isn’t a nation waiting for the island to disappear. It’s a community already, quietly, redistributing itself across the Pacific. Generations of families, embracing new homes with pride, but maintaining a genuine, complicated love for the place they keep coming back to.
Visiting Tuvalu is visiting a place that may not exist in its current form for much longer. And that is as much about community, lifestyle, and tradition as it is about physical existence. That alone, I think, is reason enough.
The other thing nobody tells you about about Tuvalu
There is a moment, specific to Tuvalu, that I didn’t expect to be as impactful as it was.
I stood at the roadside about 30 metres from the airport runway and watched my plane taxi, lift, and disappear into the Pacific. And then I stood there thinking: that’s the only way off this island. For the next two days, there is no other option. No ferries. No other airlines. One propeller plane, every other day. If something goes wrong, you’ve already passed the point of no return.
The existential weight of the genuine remoteness of Tuvalu is real, and it’s not something you can replicate anywhere else. That feeling, somewhere between peaceful and mildly terrifying, is one of the most memorable things about the trip. I remember having a split second of worrying I’d go into full-blown panic mode. And then I realised there’d be no point as there’s nothing I could do about it anyway. Resilience – learned, not read about.
What staying in Tuvalu actually feels like
There’s a moment at sunset on the disused runway that I keep thinking about. Hundreds of people. Families spread out on blankets having picnics. Kids playing volleyball. Dogs being walked. Bikes weaving through. Old men sitting watching. Young couples. Babies running in circles. All of it happening on an airport runway, because this is the thing to do, this is where the community is, this is the evening. The runway is the town square, the park, the promenade, all of it in one strip of tarmac.
Mass tourism would ruin this. More flights would physically disrupt it. That’s not the aim and I don’t think it’s coming anytime soon. But there was something quietly extraordinary about watching it, a country that – until Starlink arrived – was about as disconnected from the rest of the world as it’s possible to be, and yet had maintained this completely natural, completely analogue sense of community. People just going outside in the evenings to be together. On a runway.
Filamona Lodge in the evenings has its own version of the same energy. The expats who end up in Tuvalu are a specific type, mostly older, retired with specific mechanical skills, doing some odd jobs that brought them to one of the remotest places on earth, and just… embracing it. The remoteness. The weirdness. The fact that their main social companions on any given evening are a rotating cast of very niche travellers passing through. Same kind of story every time, told with the same cheerful shrug. I’ve met a lot of expats – I mean, I am one – but the vibe in that room was unlike anywhere else. Warm, unhurried, quietly content with the improbability of where they’d ended up.
And then there are the other tourists. Because Tuvalu is so remote and so rarely visited, the people you meet there are a specific kind of traveller: adventure types, every-country types, the kind of person who finds themselves in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with no way to leave for two days, and considers that a feature rather than a bug. There’s an instant shorthand with people like that. You don’t need to explain yourself. Everyone in that dining room already gets it.
That, in its own way, is one of the best things about going somewhere almost nobody goes.
Who should go to Tuvalu
Country counters and Nomad Mania devotees – Obviously yes. Tuvalu is its own region and one of the hardest to reach.
Climate-curious travellers – Yes. Being there and understanding that this community is actively planning for the possibility of relocating their entire nation is moving in a way that nothing else quite replicates.
People who genuinely want to experience extreme remoteness – Yes. There are very few places left where you can feel this cut off and still be in a recognised capital city with Starlink wifi.
People who like slow travel – Yes. If you can sit, read, talk to people, watch the runway at sunset, and feel content, Tuvalu will work for you.
People who like fast travel – also yes. You can see everything Funafuti has to offer in a day. And very occasionally, flight schedules align so there are two flights in quick succession one day after the other. If you get lucky and catch one of those windows, you can be in and out in 24 hours. Tick and done
Who probably shouldn’t go
People expecting beaches – the beach is rocks and coral and you can’t really go in the ocean. This is not a Pacific beach holiday or a resort getaway.
Budget travellers – flights from Fiji cost around £650 return. The pursuit of every country is not kind to the wallet.
Luxury travellers – accommodation is basic, food is simple, and AC is a myth in most places. You will be roughing it while you are here.
People who need things to do – there is the runway, a hot walk around the whole island, and the Filamona Lodge dinner. That’s more or less it.
Is it worth it?
For the right person, 1000x yes. Not because Tuvalu is objectively a great tourist destination. It isn’t. But because some travel experiences are valuable precisely because of what they’re not, and what they make you feel instead.
Tuvalu surprised me. I did barely anything at all, but I listened, observed, and learned. I’d probably go back, just to see if anything had changed.
For everything you need to know to actually get there and spend your time, the full practical guide is here.
FAQ
Is Tuvalu worth visiting for non-country counters? Possibly, if you’re interested in climate change frontline destinations, extreme remoteness, or places genuinely unlike anywhere else. Not if you want beaches or activities.
Is Tuvalu the least visited country in the world? Consistently one of the least visited, often marketed as the least visited (complete with merch available at Filamona Lodge) receiving fewer than 3,000 tourists per year.
How much does it cost to visit Tuvalu? Around £650 return from Fiji for flights. Low costs once you’re there. Full breakdown in the practical guide.
