Reflections of Whiteness, Visibility, and the Ethics of Tourism in Ghana

By Megan Gignac

I’ve never been out of the United States before this trip, so naturally, I came to Ghana expecting a lot of new experiences. Before coming here, I already knew I would stand out. I knew my long blonde hair, fair Irish skin, and American accent would make me visibly not from here. But knowing something and experiencing it are two very different things. 

From the moment I arrived, I’ve felt eyes on me. Some call out “obroni” (meaning foreigner); others want to say hello, take a photo, or just ask me where I’m from. It’s not hostile—usually quite the opposite. But it’s constant, and unfamiliar. For the first time in my life, I’ve become acutely aware of my whiteness in a way I never had to confront before. And please trust me when I say I recognize how privileged that statement is. In the United States, whiteness is so often invisible to those who benefit from it. It’s a default setting. But here, I am other. And that has been humbling, at times uncomfortable, and above all necessary. A lot of times while traveling, being the minority is expected. That’s what happens when you’re in different parts of the world, and, while that should simply be a fact of travel, I carry a kind of guilt about it. It’s the kind of guilt that comes from feeling that my presence, even if well-intentioned, sometimes feels invasive.

One experience in particular made me reflect more deeply on that discomfort. As part of our program, we visited a primary school in Nima, which is a town in the Greater Accra area. The children were incredible; joyful, energetic, and full of life. They performed a series of dances for us, and I remember smiling until my cheeks hurt. I clapped along, danced with them, got to know them, and felt genuinely moved by their talent and hospitality.

But as I stood there filming some of their dance performance on my phone, I also felt a knot in my stomach. A quiet, unsettling voice asked: Who is this really for?

Was this a meaningful cultural exchange or was it, unintentionally, a kind of performance for privileged foreigners? A show that these kids didn’t really get to opt out of? Was my presence there helping or rather just consuming? Were we part of a revolving door of visitors who came to watch poor children dance before returning to our air-conditioned hotels? Was this moment one of joy and connection or of unintentional exploitation?

I don’t have a clear answer. That’s the hard part.

There’s a name for this feeling: poverty tourism. It’s the phenomenon where tourists—often from wealthier countries—visit communities that are impoverished or marginalized. The intent isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s framed as educational, cultural, or philanthropic. On the one hand, tourism can bring awareness, revenue, and connection. It can support local economies, celebrate cultural traditions, and expose visitors (like me) to global perspectives that transform our worldview. I am grateful for that transformation. But on the other hand, it can also reinforce the same inequalities it claims to illuminate, especially when visitors come only to see poverty, without truly engaging with the people experiencing it or considering the structural systems behind it. I’ve found myself questioning: when is it helpful, and when is it harmful? When does seeing become gawking? 

There’s no simple answer, but what I’ve learned is that awareness is the first step. It’s okay to feel uncomfortable. In fact, that discomfort is necessary if I want to grow and move through the world with more humility and consciousness. I’m still processing all of this. This trip has been transformative in ways I never expected. Not just because of what I’ve seen, but because of how I’ve been seen. I’ve had to confront my privilege, my whiteness, and my own assumptions. I’ve had to sit with the discomfort of not having all the answers.

And maybe that’s the point.

If we want to be ethical travelers, we need to move past the desire for perfectly curated “authentic” experiences and start having honest conversations about race, about privilege, and about the ways we move through the world. We need to listen more than we speak, give more than we take, and understand that just being here has meaning.

Ghana has challenged me, inspired me, and reminded me how much I still have to learn. I hope that by sharing this, I’m not speaking for anyone but rather, learning to listen more, judge less, and carry these questions forward.