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“Show me the real Barbados”. It had been 3 days since I met Rudy and his monkey Socks on the beach by the bar closest to my homestay. I’d spent the first few days of my trip there, too shy to reach out to people and talk but more than happy to have the bartender keep the ridiculously cheap gin and tonics coming. This was my first solo trip abroad, my first trip to the Caribbean and the first trip I had paid for with money I made myself. I thought this should have been a symbolic moment but I felt just the same as I had before I left Canada. I wanted to be moved, to have a life changing experience à la Eat, Pray Love. Rudy and Socks were my gateway to that. He had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night while I was smoking a cigarette against a palm tree. He asked for one and I obliged. I’m supposed to be weary of strangers as a woman, slightly inebriated and alone in a country I don't know but I refused to live in fear like that. He was quite the interesting man, was born in Barbados but had bounced between there and the States living la dolce vita on his mother’s dime. Having exhausted her goodwill, he moved back to Barbados. He had come to own Socks by rescuing him from a breeding home. Own might not be the right word, Socks was loved and cared for as a child. Green monkeys are very common in Barbados and Socks was true to his kind, mischievous little trouble make but ultimately a kind soul. He’s the one who got me sold on Rudy, anyone who is loved by an animal that purely is no one to be feared. It was decided, Rudy would be my guide for the rest of my trip. So I told him I wanted to see the real Barbados. “As you wish!” I should have known something was up by then, he was never this formal with me. We walked down a winding path of residential houses and street. He took me to his house (a generous word). I was struck by it. I had always wondered where he went when he was not with me but I did not expect this half complete structure. My naive request seemed more ridiculous as time went on. Still we went on our way to this “real Barbados”. We finally got to the hangout spot. A corrugated iron house in a compound where he and his friends came together, cooked food to share among themselves and drink. I introduced myself to them and as I sat down Rudy said, a little too loudly: “Is this real enough for you?”. Thinly veiled snark, near palpable. I would have turned red if I could. Shame is a powerful thing. I come from a country that is considered poor. I hate that I wasn’t able to catch how insulting my insistence for what I thought was authenticity was. “Show me the real Barbados.” Yes the tourist zones and beach fronts might be slightly removed from every living but they were still part of the whole that made up the island. What exactly did I want to see, what was this authentic Barbados I was looking for? Did authenticity and poverty live side by side in my brain? My hosts were gracious but I know they could sense my discomfort. The rest of the evening was spent drinking, sharing life stories and eating. Salve to my wounded pride. It just felt like being back home, with my family down to the cousin who’s teasing was ultimately in good nature. The rest of the night isn’t too clear in my mind - I recall a bottle of rum and a fair amount of beers. Rudy helped me get a ride back home and we made plans to meet up at our regular spot for the next day’s galavanting. This time around, I’d be the kind of tourist Barbados deserved.