The concept of travelling ‘like a local’ has become a tired cliché, hijacked by major companies and tourist traps alikeSarah Marshall
Published 18 August 2026 10:00am BST
A mother of eight, my Neapolitan nonna spent a lifetime in the kitchen. There was nothing glamorous or romantic about it – she had mouths to feed. Some of my earliest food memories are plates of her rigatoni al pomodoro, served with a scarpetta (little shoe) of bread to mop up the sauce.
The anchor of every Italian family, nonnas have become an Italian institution – a symbol of homeliness, wisdom and tradition. But restaurants in Rome have recently come under fire for exploiting the stereotype by putting made-up matriarchs in their windows to entice naïve tourists inside.
There’s nothing new about the over-commercialisation of national treasures. I saw it first-hand 28 years ago in Venice, where I lived in a flat behind St Mark’s Square. Stores were packed with fake Murano glass ornaments and factory-made carnival masks. Only foreigners would waste 100,000 lira on a gondola (once a primary mode of public transport in the 18th century); locals hopped across canals on a simple but sturdy traghetto for a fraction of that price.
Travellers have always been on a quest to encounter unique and authentic experiences. In the past, however, that was achieved through hard graft. But now there’s an expectation to parachute in – while ticking off a few bucket list sites along the way.
Although once an honest sentiment, the concept of travelling to “live like a local” for a week (or even a brief weekend) has become a tired cliché.
It’s been hijacked by multiple companies, including Airbnb, which sells a portfolio of immersive activities such as training like a luchador in Mexico City or perfecting K-pop choreography with a dancer in Seoul. Savvy entrepreneurs across the globe are capitalising on tourism growth and creating more of what they believe foreigners want to see and take home. Organic interactions simply take too long.
When authenticity becomes entertainment
Too often, even something that starts out as genuine and authentic can end up becoming contrived and artificial. I had that experience when I first entered Bhutan, a mountain kingdom locked to the outside world until 1974. Like every tourist, I sniggered at images of giant phalluses daubed on houses as a sacred symbol of protection and fertility. Cashing in on the smutty joke, shopkeepers stacked gift stores with willy memorabilia – from key chains and candles to car mirror danglies (of a different sort).
An even more striking example is the sale of voodoo dolls in Togo. The classic trope of sticking pins into these effigies to cast curses has more to do with Hollywood pop culture than West African tradition, but tourists love to buy them. While touring a fetish market in capital city Lomé, I met an American traveller who acknowledged her interest in the dolls had nothing to do with the deeply spiritual religion but insisted on buying one to dress it up as Donald Trump.
Shams stretch beyond tacky souvenirs. The “village visit” or “cultural show” is presented as a way to interact with indigenous communities. But staged performances increasingly feel uncomfortable and exploitative.
On too many occasions, I’ve seen cultural practices exaggerated for tourist entertainment – from Maasai dances outside reconstructed bomas on the fringes of the Maasai Mara, to “fake” Sami reindeer herders in Lapland masquerading as Santa’s elves.
In Ethiopia’s Omo Valley, some traditions have become dangerously transactional. In several Mursi communities, women with lip plates and body paint were controversially paraded in front of photographers in exchange for payment. Traditionally a coming-of-age rite of passage for young Hamar men, the ukuli bula bull-jumping ceremony has descended into a camera-clicking spectacle.
These exchanges can seem innocent at first. What could be the harm in a few photos? But swelling numbers of tourists can tip a delicate balance.
The cycle of artifice
At some point we visitors begin controlling the narrative, creating a strange cycle of artifice; performances and products are invented to appease visitors searching for authenticity.
We can’t blame local entrepreneurs for seizing upon an opportunity to make money by responding to market demand. During a visit to Tahiti a few years ago, I met respected tattoo artist Patu Mamatui, whose heavily inked body was his window display. In Polynesian culture, every tattoo forms part of a life story. Ancient spiritual motifs include human-like Tiki, shark teeth and ocean waves. Yet Patu’s most frequent request from tourists was for a dolphin.
The endless search for a travel-brochure fantasy is in many ways responsible for creating false realities. Even before boarding a plane, we have formed an image in our heads of what we want to find. When the true picture doesn’t satisfy our expectations, we inadvertently begin imposing our own ideas.
Nobody wants to encourage a human zoo. Equally, nobody wants to turn up to a village and find people sitting in the mud shelling peas.
In too many places, the authentic travel experience has been diluted, exploited or reinvented almost beyond recognition. But that doesn’t mean it’s disappeared completely. In Príncipe, one half of a remote island-nation off the coast of West Africa in the Gulf of Guinea, I enjoyed one of my most memorable community encounters: I was indeed simply standing in the mud, sharing bread freshly baked from a clay oven.
Italy still has a healthy population of nonnas who rule kitchens like a military dictator, commanding the respect of their hungry troops. You will never see them in the windows of restaurants on a city centre piazza, performatively grappling with sticky strands of fresh pasta. But you might find them in the family home cooking, cleaning, complaining – or out having a daily gossip with the neighbours in the alleyway.
A real explorer should embrace the promise of the unknown, accepting the grit and the dirt, the mundane and the ordinary. Glorified tales of the past belong in a museum; contemporary real life happens on the street.
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