Your guide to São Tomé & Príncipe: A tropical paradise at the centre of the world – Monocle

Touching down at Príncipe’s pocket-sized airstrip feels like stepping into a living greenhouse at the centre of the world. One degree north of the equator and a short hop from São Tomé, this small island rises from the Gulf of Guinea in a cascade of emerald. From above, the canopy merges lime alocasias with feathery coconut fronds and ancient giants that stitch together into an unbroken quilt of green.

Reaching this remote sanctuary takes patience: itineraries usually stitch together several flights before a 35-minute prop plane ride across a cobalt sea. Then the sensory immersion begins—heat, birdsong, salt air—and with it a question that hangs over the island’s future. The private group that kick-started Príncipe’s modern ecotourism era and helped block large-scale palm-oil deforestation is preparing to sell, and residents are watching to see who will inherit the responsibility for safeguarding nature and livelihoods.

Shorelines of stillness

Príncipe’s coast reads like a string of ellipses: short crescents of ivory sand punctuate the jungle’s edge, where turquoise water presses against roots and boulders. Accommodation is low-slung and well-spaced, from bungalows tucked in coastal forest to restored plantation houses that echo the islands’ Portuguese-era architecture. Interiors lean into light and texture—cool timber, woven fibres, gauzy canopies—and the daily soundtrack is the percussive hush of the Atlantic.

Dining here is a love letter to local abundance. Expect playful plates built around what’s hauled from the ocean and gathered from the hills: fragrant stews, fish baked with native micocó herbs, bright soups and sorbets that cool the tropical afternoon. Designs often embrace the elements—arched timber, open gables, sea breezes doing the work of air-con.

Island of plenty, past and present

Mona monkeys split mangoes and scatter their jewels through the canopy; it’s hard not to read this as a metaphor for a place overflowing with life. These islands were uninhabited before Portuguese sailors arrived in the 15th century. Rain and heat proved perfect for cash crops—first sugar, then cotton, coffee and, notably, cacao. Príncipe helped seed West Africa’s cocoa story, a boom made possible by enslaved labour brought from other African territories. Independence, won in the 1970s, left behind roças—grand plantation complexes—that nature has since begun to reclaim, vines and fig roots threading through cracked windows and sunken roofs.

Despite that feral appetite, the island’s wildlife is gentle and intimate. More than 80 bird species flit between town and forest, including a cluster of endemics: three jewel-toned kingfishers are the show-stealers, one with a chest the same icy aquamarine seen painted on local houses. Three turtle species nest on beaches under moonlight, and from late winter to early spring humpback whales lift their flukes offshore. Much of the interior is protected within Obô Natural Park, where trails lead to waterfalls, fern-draped ravines and pools as clear as glass.

Leve leve: time on island terms

In Santo António, the island’s petite capital, schoolchildren parade backpacks bigger than they are, teens claim benches beneath kapok trees, and music flows from barbershops and roadside bars. The local mantra—“leve leve,” or “slowly, slowly”—is more than a slogan on murals; it’s an operating system. Visitors are encouraged to move with the tide: tour a cacao farm and see how beans become chocolate; greet dawn with binoculars for birdwatching; return to the beach at night to quietly witness a green turtle’s ritual. Days are lightly planned to leave room for seawater swims and hammock hours.

Roads wind like ribbons through volcanic uplands. Traffic is mostly motorbikes and rugged 4x4s, gliding on new tarmac in places and bouncing over stones elsewhere—the island’s version of a complimentary massage.

Sustainability with community at its core

Scale here is measured deliberately. The island is tiny and its population smaller still; nobody wants an influx that overruns fresh water, waste systems or the social fabric. The leading hospitality operator has kept bed numbers modest and growth incremental, pairing conservation with jobs and training. A nightly conservation and communities contribution is included in room rates, channelled to local projects via a regional NGO and in-house initiatives. Funds support schools, recycling and reuse schemes, and scholarships that help young Santomeans pursue studies abroad.

Sustainability is not only about turtles and trees; it is also about who benefits. In recent years, management has shifted more roles to local professionals and sought to broaden participation in tourism’s value chain—from farmers and fishers to guides and artisans.

Debate, change and what comes next

Not everyone is convinced. After centuries under foreign rule, the prominence of an external investor in the island’s largest private employer has prompted debate about influence and equity. Those concerns intensified when the current owners signalled plans to sell. The stakes are high: the wrong buyer could see Príncipe’s careful balance tilt, but the right steward could deepen a model where nature, culture and economy reinforce one another.

For now, the forests hum, the roças keep crumbling into beauty, and the sea remains the colour of a dream you can still remember when you wake. Príncipe is not insulated from history or the pressures of the present, but its small scale and deliberate pace have helped keep its biodiversity intact. The hope shared across villages and valleys is simple: that the island’s future belongs to those who care for it, and that visitors leave with more than photographs—a sense of what it means to dwell lightly at the centre of the world.