Are Souvenirs Just a Fraud? So Why Do We Keep Purchasing Them?

In the early 2000s, I paid a visit to a friend of my brother’s in San Francisco, where he and his partner resided. They had just come back to the U.S. after exploring the healing properties of ayahuasca in Peru.

His partner was an ethereal and stunning presence. As music filled the air, she took my hands and led me to float-dance around their home. During a spin, I noticed it: a Peruvian doll adorned with mesh clothing and yarn hair that could have seemed eerie elsewhere. Yet, in that magical setting, I perceived it as a captivating cultural artifact.

A few years later, I found myself wandering through the markets of the Sacred Valley in Peru, surrounded by a variety of these burial dolls. By this time, I had learned that these dolls stemmed from a burial custom of the ancient Chancay civilization, often placed in graves to represent humans. Typically handwoven, they featured simple wool and yarn for clothing and were stuffed with hay. Some were vibrant with red or yellow hair and attire, while others reflected muted, natural tones. The details were minimal—just a line for the nose and a simple oval for the mouth. In those markets, I felt incredibly lucky and haggled for a doll dressed in a plain brown gown to take home.

However, back in the U.S., its charm began to fade. My apartment was nothing like my brother’s friend’s stylish space, and the doll simply didn’t fit in the way it did there. Moreover, it showed signs of deterioration—the natural materials started to shed and fray. I began to question whether I had even legally brought it back into the United States. Should I have declared it at customs, considering the stuffing was essentially dead grass? Increasingly, I felt the urge to part with it.

Eventually, I conceived a new potential use for my awkward companion. Birds were nesting atop the air-conditioning unit outside my window, their chirping disrupting my sleep. I wondered if the doll could act as a scarecrow. I placed it on the unit and was astonished to find that my idea worked. The birds abandoned their nest. But soon, the doll disappeared as well. Good riddance, I thought. Yet, a few days later, it reappeared on my front stoop. I began to feel unsettled, so I brought it back inside. Perhaps it carried some sort of magic? I wasn’t sure, but I didn't want to find out. I tucked it into a closet, and there it stayed. Years later, I finally mustered the courage to toss it out during one of my moves.

Sadly, the doll embodies a broader dilemma in my life. Over the years, I’ve made countless souvenir blunders, prompting significant questions: Why do I often feel compelled to buy keepsakes while traveling—and what do I hope to gain from them?

I embarked with the best intentions. I understand the value of supporting local craftspeople and artisans, and I want a physical reminder of a particular place and time in my life. My struggle lies in execution. While traveling and faced with a souvenir option, I become overwhelmed with fear that I’m either overpaying or getting a poor-quality item, which leads to a purchase of something entirely inauthentic. In my panic, I frequently end up with exactly what I was trying to avoid.

Take, for instance, the poncho I bought near Lake Atitlán. I told the vendors that I wanted an embroidered piece like the ones they were wearing, not the versions aimed at tourists. They returned with a poncho featuring a detailed geometric rainbow design. It was pricey, but I bargained for what I believed was a fair price for such intricate craftsmanship. However, when the money exchanged hands, I had to dash to catch my bus and didn’t have time to try it on. I had tried on several others that fit well. Yet, on the bus, rolling away from the market, I pulled out the poncho and faced an uncomfortable reality: It wouldn’t fit over my head.

Then there was the time I got tricked at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, one of the oldest and largest markets in the world, where I chose a kettle that melted on my stovetop at home; it turned out to be made of plastic, merely painted to resemble metal. And let’s not forget the "magic silk blanket" from a silk-worm factory I visited near the Great Wall in China. It was marketed as keeping cool when it’s hot and warm when it’s cold—or so they claimed before I bought the mystical duvet. (Sadly, I’ll never know how effective it really was because I left it behind in my hotel.)

Yet, I continue to hold on. Growing up in a household filled with foreign artifacts from my parents’ native Poland and Romania, I find a sense of nostalgia in global trinkets that tell their small tales throughout my living space. Perhaps I could take a cue from a colleague who aims to create a more cohesive narrative through her international purchases. She collects Christmas ornaments from her travels, resulting in a stunning, ever-evolving collection that she proudly displays each holiday season. How practical, I thought upon seeing her collection for the first time. What a wonderful way to utilize memories. I wish I had considered that when I began my own globetrotting adventures in my early twenties. Instead, I’m left with my eclectic mix of successes and failures.

Even with the potential for missteps, I’m not alone in feeling the urge to bring back something from my travels. A 2018 survey by the international data and analytics firm YouGov revealed that 65 percent of Americans return home with souvenirs from their journeys.

The idea of bringing home a piece from one’s travels is an age-old tale. Museums are filled with artifacts that were carried back, often unethically, by ancient explorers.

“Evidence of souvenirs dates back to ancient Roman times, with metal tokens discovered on Hadrian’s Wall in northern Britain, left behind by Roman soldiers stationed there,” explains Amy Clarke, a senior history lecturer at the University of the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia, who has studied souvenirs. “There’s also extensive evidence of souvenirs from the Crusades and pilgrimage periods, as people would purchase and wear badges, pins, and medals featuring the patron saint of a cathedral or region. These items signified that the wearer was a pilgrim on a sacred quest.”

However, with the rise of modern explorers and mass tourism, consumer industries have emerged to manufacture and sell trinkets that often have little connection to the destinations being visited.

“People often believe they are purchasing items that are ‘authentic’ to the area, crafted by locals and sold in a way that benefits the community. However, the reality often falls short of this ideal. Mass production typically takes place in countries like China, Vietnam, and Bangladesh,” explains Clarke, highlighting items like dolls, mugs, and keychains that are made overseas but labeled with names of cities such as London, Paris, Prague, and Amsterdam, merely shipped there for sale.

That said, not all souvenirs are without merit. As travelers have become more discerning and stakeholders at travel destinations have sought a stronger link to the tourism economy, a movement has emerged to ensure that visitors can find more authentically produced goods, often crafted by local artisans and directly supporting the community. For those looking to shop responsibly, Clarke recommends seeking out locally made items that serve a genuine purpose, like unique food products or tools specific to the area.

Moreover, travelers are increasingly conscious of their environmental impact, and the desire to avoid waste—not wanting to purchase inexpensive, plastic items that will ultimately end up in landfills or oceans—is casting a new perspective on the souvenir industry. The rise of smartphones, digital photography, and social media has also transformed how individuals think about preserving and sharing their travel memories.

I, too, am learning from my previous missteps regarding souvenirs. Nowadays, when I travel, I prioritize finding pieces from local artists to adorn my walls or jewelry from small, independently-owned shops. I also remind myself that it’s perfectly acceptable to buy nothing and support the destination in alternative ways, like dining at family-run eateries or volunteering.

Yet, there’s a certain comfort in knowing that no amount of time or maturity can erase that part of me that remains somewhat awkward, quirky, and uncertain when it comes to souvenirs. While I’m glad to have left most of my souvenir blunders behind, if I’m being honest, many of them were far more memorable than my flawless acquisitions. Take this for instance.