My Dissertation: A study of ayahuasca tourism in the Amazon

I have had a lot of interesting conversations with people, both before and during my trip, off the back of research I conducted for my undergraduate dissertation and the conclusions that I drew. I wanted to upload it online so that I can share it more easily with people who are interested. It is approximately 12,000 words so skim-reading is most definitely allowed.

From Spiritual Alienation to Cultural Appropriation: A Study of Western Use of Ayahuasca within the Tourist Setting

Abstract:

Ayahuasca is a psychoactive brew traditionally used amongst indigenous groups for healing within ritual contexts. Ayahuasca has been said to facilitate spiritual awakening among users, which seems to be an increasingly attractive prospect for Western members of the new middle-class, whose situation within the urban setting may be engendering feelings of social, environmental and spiritual alienation. Many Westerners travel to destinations like Iquitos, Peru, to access ayahuasca healing, giving way to new modes of shamanic practice described by terms such as cross-cultural ­vegetalismo and neo-shamanism. In this dissertation, I explore Western engagement with ayahuasca in relation to cultural appropriation, applying different definitions of the term to assess the social, political and economic implications of neo-shamanism upon indigenous groups in the region. I conclude that Western appropriation of ayahuasca is shaped by the postcolonial context of Western-indigenous relations, and that there are therefore significant power imbalances to consider. However, within the context of globalisation, cultures will inevitably fuse to form new and hybrid forms, and on this basis I argue that Western appropriation of ayahuasca is not, in of itself, wrongful. Nonetheless, it is important that indigenous groups are able to exercise agency within this modern, transcultural setting, and to have some degree of control over the commodification of their culture.

Chapters:

1. Introduction

2. Literature Review and Methodology

3. Chapter One – Cultural Exchange

4. Chapter Two – Cultural Dominance

5. Chapter Three – Cultural Exploitation

6. Chapter Four – Transculturation

7. Conclusion

8. Bibliography

1. Introduction

The psychoactive brew known as ayahuasca is native to the Amazon and has formed a part of indigenous healing and ceremonial life for as long as 8000 years (Dobkin de Rios and Rumrrill, 2008). Throughout regions of Peru, Colombia, Ecuador and Brazil, the brew may be called caapi, yage, natema, shuri and kamalampi; however, it is most commonly referred to by the Quechua name for the Banisteriopsis Caapi vine: ayahuasca (Highpine, 2013). The bark of this entheogenic vine is boiled together with admixtures, usually chacruna leaves, which activate the psychedelic compound, dimethyltryptamine (DMT), naturally available in the ayahuasca vine (Soler et al., 2016). Drinkers of the brew will often experience intense diarrhoea and vomiting before the DMT causes hallucinogenic effects to develop, normally lasting around six hours. Many users report that, whilst under the influence of the brew, they encountered a feminine spirit known as ‘Mother Ayahausca’, who has been credited with the power of guiding her ‘children’ towards spiritual awakening (Pettersson and Karim, 2020).

Traditionally, healers or ‘shamans’ would use the brew as a means of treating illness in a practice known as vegetalismo, which is why they are also referred to as vegetalistas and médicos. Shamans undergo several-year-long apprenticeships in which they learn repertoires of icaros (songs which are performed to invoke the powers of the spirits) (Tupper, 2017, p. 184), and adhere strictly to ‘la dieta’, which involves abstaining from a number of things including flavourful foods and sexual stimulation in order to “dwell in the spirit world” (Highpine, 2013). In recent years, however, ayahuasca has attracted attention from all over the world and is being increasingly used outside of its native context, raising questions over whether its potential benefits should be available for all to use, or reserved for the indigenous communities with whom it originates.

In 2011 and 2012, ayahuasca groups and public institutions worked together to produce an inclusive cultural inventory of ayahuasca uses, resulting in the creation of three classifications: “original”, “traditional” and “eclectic” (Neves, cited in Labate and Coutinho, 2014, p. 189). The “original” classification refers to ayahuasca traditions within indigenous groups, who may use ayahuasca not only for healing purposes, but also for prophesizing (Luke, 2013), protection (Dobkin de Rios, 1971, p. 257), and even ‘spiritual warfare’ (Homan, 2017, p. 174). There are many indigenous groups who have been using ayahuasca for centuries, such as the Shipibo of Peru, the Shuar of Ecuador, and the Amazonian Kichwas (Luna, 2003; Highpine, 2013), whilst other indigenous communities have been introduced to the brew in more recent times. Nonetheless, ayahuasca forms an important part of ceremonial life for these groups and its use in this context would still qualify as “original”. The “traditional” classification refers to evangelical groups such as União do Vegetal (UDV) and Santo Daime, which combine Christian elements with “original” shamanic ceremonies (Mercante, 2015). Finally, the “eclectic” classification describes “neo-ayahuasca urban modalities” (Labate and Coutinho, 2014, p. 189). This classification refers to the contemporary use of ayahuasca within New Age and neo-shamanic movements. Neo-shamanism is defined by Jakobsen (1999, p. xi) as:

A form of shamanism that has been created at the end of the 20th century to re-establish a link for modern man to his spiritual roots, to reintroduce shamanic behaviour into the lives of Westerners in search of spirituality and, thereby, renew contact with Nature.

In recent years this kind of ayahuasca use has become popular with visitors from outside of the region, giving rise to the term ‘cross-cultural vegetalismo’ (Tupper, 2009).

Since the early 1980’s ‘ayahuasca tourism’, also referred to as shamanic, spiritual, medical or ethnotourism, has seen increasing popularity particularly in the region of Iquitos in north-eastern Peru which has come to be known as a kind of spiritual homeland for those seeking ayahuasca healing (Labate, Cavnar and Gearin, 2017, p. 7). Thousands of tourists come to visit the region annually, primarily from Western countries such as the United States, England, France and Australia to partake in ayahuasca ceremonies (Homan, 2017, p. 165). Some of them even return to the region to train as shamans and set up their own ayahuasca lodges (Peluso, 2017, p. 210). As Dawson reveals, the majority of modern ayahuasca users come from what he calls the ‘new middle class’; often from urban backgrounds, college educated and motivated by personal development (2017, pp. 27–28). In contrast with indigenous groups, members of the ‘new middle class’ often have more money to pay for ayahuasca “retreats” costing up to $250 USD per day (Hartman, 2019), or even to establish their own shamanic enterprises, making them powerful economic agents within the Western Peruvian Amazon (Freedman, 2014).

Although shamans have always received some form of renumeration for their services, this has traditionally been within the context of local gift economies and therefore offered little opportunity (or need) to profit from ayahuasca (Peluso, 2017, p. 205). Ayahuasca is now a key part of a multimillion dollar tourist industry which has transformed the social and economic lives of many within the Amazon, particularly in and around Iquitos (Homan, 2017, p. 165). Nevertheless, shamanic tourism has been criticised for commodifying ayahuasca and desacralizing shamanic rituals. Dobkin de Rios and Rumrill write that “the farce currently resulting from the borrowing of shamanic elements in a hodgepodge of cobbled mysticism verges on the ludicrous”, arguing that Western use of ayahuasca is appropriative of indigenous wisdom (2008, p. 82). Given the painful history of Western-indigenous relations and the ways in which this continues to shape the socioeconomic reality of indigenous groups in the Amazon, Western appropriation of indigenous culture could serve to reinforce existing power imbalances in a number of ways. By examining shamanic tourism through four different lenses of cultural appropriation, this dissertation will attempt to determine the degree to which Western shamanic tourists and neo-shamans wrongfully appropriate indigenous culture when they engage with ayahuasca within a commercialised context.

After giving an overview of the relevant debates surrounding cultural appropriation, the main body of this dissertation will use the framework offered by Richard A. Rogers (2006) in his review of the four main forms of cultural appropriation. The first chapter will look at the use of ayahuasca by Westerners as a potential form of cultural exchange. I will argue that shamanic tourism cannot be considered a mutual or reciprocal sharing of cultural elements given the power imbalances which are rooted in Western-indigenous relations. The second chapter will examine the ways in which shamanic tourism serves to further the West’s cultural dominance in the Amazon, concluding that there is little evidence to suggest that the cultural power of Western societies is strengthened by cross-cultural vegetalismo. The third chapter will assess the degree to which Western use of ayahuasca is exploitative of indigenous groups by evaluating the harm brought to them through the spread of neo-shamanism. It will be found that, although power imbalances are in some ways reinforced by this phenomenon, the discourse surrounding cultural exploitation tends to overlook the dynamic nature of culture in modern Latin America and is therefore inappropriate here. The final chapter will argue that transculturation is the only perspective which considers the inevitability of cultural fusion within the globalised world, whilst also accounting for obstacles to indigenous agency within the postcolonial context of modern Amazonia. Ayahuasca has been called “la ciencia universal del universo” ('the universal science')(Fotiou, 2014, p. 170), but how far should this science be universalised at the detriment of the groups who first realised its power?

2. Literature Review and Methodology

Cultural appropriation can be defined as “the taking over of creative or artistic forms, themes, or practices by one cultural group from another” (Drabble, Stringer and Hahn, 2007). This is a relatively recent contribution to cultural studies which considers neo-colonial power relations, and the significance and ethics of cultural heritage. Kenneth Coutts-Smith (1976) was among the first to describe what he termed ‘cultural colonialism’ through the Marxist lens of ‘class appropriation’, whereby the dominant class appropriates elements of the lower and middle classes without consideration for relevant social or political implications. Since this notion has been increasingly applied to media representations and to the commodification of subordinated cultures, there has been some disagreement over how to qualify instances of wrongful appropriation.

Cultural appropriation can be seen as a legal issue, and this is discussed in the work of scholars such as Susan Scafidi and Mathias Siems. According to Scafidi, “without a legal structure we have no framework for discussion of meaning and normative use, dispute resolution, or even recognition of conflicting values” in the resolution of claims of wrongful cultural appropriation (2005, pp. 101–102). Such a legal structure could include intellectual property or even copyright laws, though Siems highlights the difficulty in copyrighting the cultural property of social groups, since “group members and their contributions need to be identifiable” (2019, p. 410). He therefore argues for a balanced approach towards cultural appropriation; one which considers legal factors like intellectual property, alongside ethical concerns. Some scholars argue against conceiving of cultural appropriation in terms of intellectual property or copyright altogether.

Erich Hatala Matthes holds that “we don’t need the concept of property to understand the cultural appropriation debate—we need the concept of power” (Matthes, 2019, p. 1005). He argues that cultural appropriation is wrongful if it manifests or exacerbates an imbalance of power or oppresses members of the source culture. His argument in favour of what he terms ‘the oppression account’ of cultural appropriation came in response to the ‘intimacy account’ defended by Nguyen and Strohl (2019). According to the intimacy account, ‘claim-deference’ is grounds for outsiders to refrain from appropriation (if and when groups members object to the appropriation of their cultural elements), but the normative importance of these claims should be based upon the intimacy of the group. Matthes holds that the intimacy account “doubles down on the boundary problem” (2019, p. 1003), which refers to the tendency for discourses surrounding cultural appropriation to rely on black-and-white distinctions between cultural ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’, or ‘members’ and ‘non-members’ (2016, p. 345). Matthes and other scholars have critiqued this thinking as harmfully essentialist in its assumption that cultural groups are fixed, distinct and stable, and have highlighted the potential for this kind of dichotomy to create further prejudice and oppression (Rhodes, Leslie and Tworek, 2012). Cultural essentialism is also relevant to the discussion surrounding copyright and cultural property, as groups must be clearly demarcated if use of their cultural property by ‘outsiders’ is to be regulated by law.

Some scholars discuss cultural appropriation through a different lens entirely; if the term refers to the use of one group’s cultural elements by another, then it follows that it can also be applied when subordinate groups use the cultural elements of a dominant group. This kind of appropriation may be wrongful if the dominant culture has been forced upon the subordinate culture; a process also termed cultural imperialism (Boyd-Barrett, 2018). John Tomlinson (2002) dissected this term in the postmodern context, giving special consideration to modernization and the spread of capitalism as possible impositions upon marginalised groups.

Cultural appropriation may be thought of in many different ways, depending on who is using whose culture, and to what effect. Richard Rogers offered a “review and reconceptualization” of cultural appropriation in his article ‘From Cultural Exchange to Transculturation’ (2006), in which he identified four key forms of cultural appropriation. These are (1) cultural exchange, which is associated with cultural appreciation and is based on relatively equal power relations; (2) cultural dominance, described above as cultural imperialism; (3) cultural exploitation, the most commonly recognised form of cultural appropriation (Katzarska-Miller et al., 2020), referring to the appropriation of subordinate cultures’ elements by dominant cultures, and (4) transculturation, which runs parallel to the concept of cultural hybridisation, and can involve multiple appropriations at once. These categories will form the foundations of my investigation into the appropriation of ayahuasca given that, as a framework, it can provide a comprehensive and workable structure by which to organise my findings, and will allow me to take full consideration of the different forms of appropriation as theorised by the scholars mentioned above. I will apply Rogers’ definitions within each of my chapters to assess the extent to which they accurately represent shamanic tourism in the Amazon, drawing upon relevant literature within each of the categories. Rogers broadly understands the “object” of cultural appropriation to be a culture’s “symbols, artifacts, genres, rituals or technologies” (2006, p. 476). This definition can be applied to encompass the traditional ‘rituals’ associated with ayahuasca as well as the brew itself, which may be considered either an artifact or technology, having been described by Kenneth Tupper as a “complex decoction that is evidence of an advanced form of pharmacognosy among the indigenous peoples of the Amazon” (2009, p. 127).

This study has potential limitations. Defining and describing the processes of appropriation to which indigenous groups may or may not be subjected will involve setting cultural boundaries between the ‘appropriators’ and ‘appropriated’. Making this distinction may verge on cultural essentialism as it somewhat reinforces the ‘boundary problem’. I have therefore chosen to consider the appropriation of ayahuasca and ayahuasca rituals through a more general perspective, defining the ‘appropriated’ as indigenous groups who lay claim to ayahuasca as part of their cultural heritage. This approach may be problematic insofar as it may fail to recognise the harms caused to groups which fall outside of the scope of this definition, while further investigation may be needed to assess the effects of neo-shamanism on specific groups, such as the Shipibo community. The definition of ‘indigenous groups’ could also be problematic as there is a large degree of crossover with other definitions, such as ‘traditional communities’ (Roht-Arriaza, 1995, p. 920). My use of the term ‘indigenous’ reflects the definition offered by the United Nations:

Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a historical continuity with pre-invasion and pre-colonial societies that developed on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing on those territories, or parts of them. (2015)

The ‘appropriators’ will be those who use ayahuasca and are from outside of the Amazon, most often the United States, Europe and Australia. Again, this categorisation is very general and may need to be refined to evaluate the specific impacts of particular demographics. As I am writing from a Western perspective, I am aware that my research may be guided by my experiences within the modern, urban environment, and that my reading of shamanic tourism is reliant upon secondary materials which may have their own ingrained prejudices. This dissertation therefore seeks to take into account the postcolonial context which governs Western interactions with indigenous groups without claiming to offer any explicit resolution to these complex and deep-rooted issues.

3. Chapter One – Cultural Exchange

The notion of cultural exchange is based on the reciprocal sharing of cultural symbols, artifacts, rituals, genres, and/or technologies and requires an approximate balance of power between the source and receiving cultures (Katzarska-Miller et al., 2020, p. 581). Cultural exchange can be seen as the ethical ideal within appropriative interactions, given that a reciprocal flow of elements such as religious beliefs and practices, art forms and technological innovations suggests that the interaction mutually benefits both of the cultures involved (Rogers, 2006, pp. 478–479). Discussing the advantages of the “cross-fertilisation” of culture, Siems writes that ideas must be allowed to come together in order to form something “greater than the sum of its part” (Siems, 2019, p. 415). So then, if the appropriation of another’s culture can operate as the voluntary sharing of cultural elements within a more-or-less equal power dynamic, why should it not be positively encouraged as something which will foster new ideas? While this question seeks to validate cultural appropriation on the pretext that it meets some seemingly basic ethical standards, it ignores the deep-rooted imbalance of power between ‘the West and the rest’. For example, the US and Japan are countries which may be seen as partners of equal power; however, there are a number of American ideals, such as beauty standards, which dominate more in Japan than any Japanese norms in the US, limiting the reciprocity of American-Japanese intercultural exchange (Rogers, 2006, pp. 478–479). This chapter will therefore pay special attention to power dynamics between indigenous groups and Westerners within settings like Iquitos, seeking to evaluate the extent to which the term ‘cultural exchange’ can be applied to interactions within shamanic tourism.

Firstly, the ‘cultural exchange’ rhetoric evokes the assumption that the sharing of ayahuasca practices will be mutually beneficial for members of both source and receiving cultures. The first point to be addressed is the important and relevant question: why do Westerners take part in ayahuasca rituals? As the modern world becomes increasingly market-driven, the individualizing social and cultural forces which accompany this neoliberal shift also shape the behaviour of individuals (Dawson, 2017, pp. 27–28). This environment fosters a feeling of emptiness within many, who may feel “uprooted from cultural traditions, community belonging and spiritual meaning” (Tupper, 2009, p. 125). There is a causal relationship between modernity and depression (see Hidaka, 2012), and other common mental health disorders such as anxiety and addiction, which are now among the most prevalent global diseases (Wainberg et al., 2017). In the 19th and early 20th century, neurasthenia was a frequent diagnosis for Americans who suffered from depression, irritability, insomnia, lethargy and other symptoms associated with the onset of industrialisation (Schuster, 2011). Much like ‘experiencing nature’ emerged from this period as a key lifestyle antidote for neurasthenia (ibid.), so too might ayahuasca ceremonies provide a similar opportunity for those suffering the effects of 21st century modernity. Ayahuasca can offer Westerners the opportunity to experience nature, given both the natural surroundings in which ceremonies often take place, and the capacity of the brew itself to create balance and understanding between humans and their environment (McKenna, 2005).

The introspective nature of the ayahuasca experience enables participants to “gain insight into their maladaptive behavioural, emotional and/or cognitive patterns” (Frecska, Bokor and Winkelman, 2016, p. 8). Ayahuasca therefore has the potential to increase assertiveness and joy of life among participants (Barbosa, Giglio and Dalgalarrondo, 2005), and to decrease feelings of anxiety and hopelessness (Da Silveira et al., 2005; dos Santos et al., 2007). Between the late 1950s and early 1970s, studies revealed the possible therapeutic effects of psychedelics such as LSD and psilocybin in the treatment of anxiety, depression and substance use disorders (dos Santos et al., 2021). Though these studies were prohibited in the early 1990s, several research groups have recently revisited the use of psychedelics in treating mental health disorders which are largely a result of our modern (Western) lifestyles (Brindley, 2021). Unlike LSD and psilocybin, ayahuasca benefits from a “protective cloak of ritual and social control” which may be able to resist the “recreational denouement, hedonistic failure and political marginalisation” which befell users of psychedelics during and following the 1960s (Labate, Cavnar and Gearin, 2017, p. xvi), and therefore could be a valuable asset to studies on the benefits of psychedelics for mental health. It is therefore clear why Westerners who feel disenfranchised from their own culture may turn to something as seemingly radical as ayahuasca, not merely for the healing potential of the brew itself, but also for the cultural, spiritual and natural elements which accompany it.

As a result of the internet, ayahuasca is available all over the world. Why, then, do Westerners travel to Peru in order to partake in traditional rituals? Fotiou suggests that the framework offered by these rituals provides a greater opportunity for healing and spiritual work, so the healing potential is increased when patients engage with ayahuasca within its native context (2014, p. 164). Likewise, psychologist Stanley Krippner (2012, p. 78) writes that the symbolism, social reinforcement and feeling of oneness with nature present within rituals can greatly benefit the potential for healing:

Shamanic models represent a structured and thoughtful approach to healing that attempts to mend the torn fabric of a person’s (or a community’s) connection with the earth as well as the splits that frequently occur between body and mind, between the spiritual and the secular.

It is evident why Westerners are drawn to ayahuasca, especially given that within the modern urban environment there might be few other opportunities to become immersed within the natural and spiritual elements offered by shamanic ceremonies. Nevertheless, as Tupper highlights, it is important not to lose sight of the harm that may be done to indigenous people in the process of offering healing to Westerners (2009, p. 131). If the groups who first discovered the benefits of ayahuasca for healing and the methods by which to harness this power get little in return for sharing this knowledge, then Western appropriation of ayahuasca cannot qualify as cultural exchange.

Various breakthroughs made within Western medicine are applied globally, and have extended the global average life expectancy (Bliss, 2006). Here one might argue that there is a cultural exchange of medical approaches and applications; just as indigenous communities count on Western provisions such as vaccination, maternal care and family planning (Montenegro and Stephens, 2006), Westerners are now turning to ayahuasca shamans to heal ailments which seem to be beyond the reach of Western medicine. Though this relationship implies a degree of reciprocity, the exchange is hardly a simultaneous one. Western medicine is well-established throughout the world and has been for much longer than Westerners have been engaging with ayahuasca healing, so shamanic tourism cannot be justified on the grounds of reciprocal medical ‘exchange’.

Furthermore, access to the medicine is not equal; while Westerners are often able to access whatever form of medicine they choose, from science-based diagnoses to holistic healing in foreign countries, indigenous people have only limited access to basic health services (Stephens, Nettleton and Bristow, 2003). This indicates a power imbalance which is not characteristic of cultural exchange (Rogers, 2006, p. 477), and now indigenous groups even have restricted access to ayahuasca as a result of its popularity among foreigners (Peluso, 2017, p. 211). Consequently, it may be difficult to qualify Western interaction with ayahuasca as cultural exchange on the grounds of shared medical practice, given the evident imbalance of power in the relationship.

Ayahuasca rituals have served to facilitate exchange and materialise alliances among different tribes since before the boom of shamanic tourism (Virtanen, 2014). This could mean that there is a natural tendency for locals to share ayahuasca with outsiders as a way to teach them, and perhaps also as an expression of their own interest in other cultures. Fotiou highlights the benefits of this within the context of shamanic tourism, identifying that there are new opportunities for dialogue between Westerners and locals, and that there is a renewed interest in indigenous knowledge as a result (2014, p. 163). The position of indigenous communities within the globalised landscape is a precarious one; marginalised by the social, economic and political systems established during colonial times, they continue to be oppressed by implicit racial hierarchies and exclusion from the political sphere (Martinez-Gugerli, 2018). The revitalization afforded to ayahuasca rituals by shamanic tourism may affirm indigenous cultures and strengthen group identity by re-engaging members with ritualistic practice (Brabec de Mori, 2014, p. 224), whilst offering indigenous groups a stronger sense of solidarity and recognition from the international community. However, while indigenous traditions and practices may now be receiving validation from the international community, this still does not mean that indigenous groups are benefitting from any degree of cultural exchange as ‘validation’ is not a cultural element which can be exchanged for ayahuasca or shamanic healing. This is to say that, whilst both groups may enjoy some benefits from this example of cultural lending and borrowing, it is a one-directional cultural experience, and the power balance is still far from equal.

Rogers described cultural exchange as normally “voluntary” (2006, p. 478), which is indeed characteristic of indigenous participation in cross-cultural vegetalismo. Usually, indigenous shamans enter willingly into this exchange, actively participating in the proliferation of ayahuasca consumption and its related practices through festivals and retreats (Labate and Coutinho, 2014, p. 182). There is a significant economic incentive for this given that the relatively rich foreign visitors are able to pay considerable amounts of money for ayahuasca ceremonies (Hartman, 2019). The voluntary nature with which indigenous shamans engage in this cultural lending may therefore be attributed to the financial renumeration they receive as a result. It is important to remember that the locals have few other options to make money (Brabec de Mori, 2014, p. 214), which may reflect some degree of desperation in their willingness to commodify their cultural practices. The disparity in economic opportunities available to indigenous groups in comparison to the Western tourists who pay for their services indicates a broader imbalance of power between these groups, rendering the grounds for arguing a case of ‘cultural exchange’ weak.

Many members of the ‘new middle-class’ are increasingly embracing a cosmopolitan worldview (Peluso, 2017, p. 212); one which promotes “the primacy of world citizenship over all national, religious, cultural, ethnic and other parochial affiliations” (Beck and Sznaider, 2010, p. 6). Discourses on cultural exchange often reflect this perspective in their celebration of the benefits of cultural sharing without the acknowledgement that power relations play a vital role in making the interaction fair for both parties. Critics argue against the cosmopolitan tendency to focus on Western liberal values, emphasizing the need for a postcolonial understanding of global relations (Bhambra, 2016, pp. 313–314). The cosmopolitan world view appears to serve Western interests above anyone else’s; in justifying universal access to cultural property we are doing little more than validating neo-colonial appropriation of subordinate cultures since these cultures do not have the same opportunity to choose which foreign symbols, artifacts, rituals and technologies they engage with. Given that “the reciprocal exchange of symbols, artifacts, rituals, genres, and/or technologies between cultures with roughly equal levels of power” (Rogers, 2006, p. 477) requires a balanced understanding of power, perhaps it is not possible for those who hold power to comment on when an exchange may be deemed reciprocal.

Although Western engagement with ayahuasca may grant benefits to the source communities, the imbalance in economic and socio-political power between indigenous groups and Westerners means that these interactions serve Western interests above all else. At best, this implies a somewhat ignorant effort from Western visitors to extract the benefits of ayahuasca with the help of indigenous traditions. At worst, it implies the fetishization of ayahuasca imagery and a dismissal of the real problems which face the marginalised indigenous communities with whom the practices in question originate (Aldred, 2000, p. 333). Are Westerners who travel to Peru to take part in ayahuasca ceremonies motivated by cultural exchange, or are their reasons inherently more selfish? As for the indigenous communities, are they partaking in this so-called ‘exchange’ in order to share ayahuasca as a gift to the modern world, or has their hand been forced by the neoliberal pressures which delimit their autonomy? Perhaps it is more helpful to understand cultural exchange as a standard by which individuals can strive to interact with cultures different to their own, but an unworkable theory when put into practice given the imbalances in power which are inevitable when cultures interact with one another.

4. Chapter Two – Cultural Dominance

When the conquistadors invaded America over five hundred years ago, they had no interest in engaging with indigenous cultures for the sake of exchange, but rather to use as evidence of the extent of their own domination (Coutts-Smith, 1976). This exhibition of dominance created a legacy that remained for centuries, serving to further European interests and strengthen their hold over the pre-existing native cultures. There is still a strong European influence in South America, as evidenced by the continent’s most prevalent religions, languages and music, but to what extent is this influence forcibly imposed upon the South American people? Rogers’s second form of cultural appropriation, cultural dominance, can be applied here to examine the continued imposition of European culture upon indigenous Amazonian peoples (Rogers, 2006, p. 477). Cultural dominance is comparable to cultural imperialism, which Schiller defined as the processes by which subordinate societies are pressured into adopting “the values and structures of the dominating centre of the system” (Schiller, 1976, p. 9). As such, cultural dominance serves to erase parts of marginalized cultures through processes of assimilation, which can leave members subject to discrimination, poverty and lack of opportunity (Brunk and Young, 2009, p. 5). A notable example of cultural dominance is the boarding school system established in the United States in the 19th and 20th century which forced Native American children to adopt Anglo-American culture (Katzarska-Miller et al., 2020, p. 582). This chapter will evaluate the extent to which indigenous groups, particularly those around north-eastern Peru, are forced to internalise Western values, norms and practices through their interaction with shamanic tourists, and comment upon the applicability of the ‘cultural dominance’ categorisation to the debate on the appropriation of ayahuasca traditions.

The arrival of the Europeans in America brought great change to the continent’s indigenous inhabitants, in both material and ideological spheres. The values and norms of colonised people were shaped towards European dogmas, most notably Christianity, and later capitalism. For much of the last five hundred years, ayahuasca shamanism has been systemically condemned by the Catholic Church and other evangelical groups, which has negatively influenced general perception of the practice (Peluso, 2017, p. 207). Vegetalismo religions such as UDV and Santo Daime claimed to bring “light” and “doctrine” to ayahuasca shamanism, and this process of evangelisation became an important step in ayahuasca’s evolution towards wider acceptance (Labate and Coutinho, 2014, p. 192); demonstrating the extent to which indigenous practices must be ‘Westernised’ in order to be accepted, even within a postcolonial context. However, the evangelisation of ayahuasca took place long before the boom of ayahuasca tourism, and uses of ayahuasca within cross-cultural vegetalismo are considered apart from uses within syncretistic religions such as UDV (Tupper, 2009, p. 119). As such, modern appropriation of ayahuasca has more to do with its commodification than its evangelisation.

Until recently, economies in the Amazon have functioned on an egalitarian basis, with informal customs of reciprocity acting as the primary mode of exchange (Tupper, 2017, p. 186), which is in contrast with the contemporary sale of ayahuasca and paraphernalia such as raw tobacco rolls (mapacho), agua de florida, CD’s of icaros, indigenous textiles and ayahausca-inspired art (Peluso, 2017, p. 211). While notions of private property may before have seemed alien to many indigenous communities, the spread of neoliberalism has changed the nature of economic relations in even the most remote areas of the world, including in the Amazon (Battiste and Henderson, 2000, p. 71). Shamans who work with Westerners earn good money, and many use this money to have homes built with material noble (brick and mortar, rather than wood and palm thatching which is typical in the Western Amazon), and buy products such as flat-screen televisions, satellite receivers, laptops and mobile phones (Homan, 2017, p. 173). This consumerist orientation reflects an assimilation of modern Western values among Amazonian communities and indicates a convergence towards Western cultural norms. The rise in consumerism is proliferated by globalisation, which is generally understood as “the integration of societies and economies across the world into one system”: a capitalist system (Veltmeyer, 2020, p. 1342). This converging world system is European in origin, so does this reflect processes of cultural dominance?

Scholars have debated the notion of globalisation as a form of cultural imperialism since Lenin theorized that imperialism was the highest form of capitalism (1917). Schiller (1976, pp. 6–7) wrote that the modern world system is advanced by communications and media technology and more recently theorists have asserted that globalisation is “a strategy designed to enhance the interests of imperial powers by opening up the markets of weaker countries” (Veltmeyer, 2020, p. 1345). Tomlinson argues against this “functionalist” view on the grounds that, unlike state actors, capitalism is a system and therefore has no aims, objectives or agenda by which it is motivated to seek power (2002, pp. 103–106). Flora and Flora write that the removal of individuals from a group setting enables the “integration and acceptance of values consistent with capitalism” (1978, p. 135), framing capitalism as an infiltration which takes hold once a community has become weak and susceptible to it. This view not only verges on the functionalism criticised by Tomlinson, but also depicts a very passive acceptance of dominant culture by subordinate groups. It is important to consider that these communities do have agency and (at least some degree of) control over their engagement with capitalism and capitalist values, and in Iquitos it seems that many shamans enter very willingly into the capitalist arrangement (Labate and Coutinho, 2014; Homan, 2017; Peluso, 2017).

Moreover, Tomlinson (2002, p. 107) holds that culture can only be established on the “material ‘base’ of the adequate provision for human needs” meaning that there is not much room for independent cultural development in a community deprived of economic opportunity. Indigenous Amazonian communities tend to be poor because of long-standing debts to the patrones (owners) of the encomiendas (slave plantations) established during the rubber boom, and are now in a position where they have little to sell but their culture (Homan, 2017, p. 167). The social and economic breakdown of these communities would therefore leave them likely to converge towards the global trend which is seeing more and more cultural products subjected to commodification.

The spread of neoliberalism has brought significant change to the Amazon, and will most likely continue to shape indigenous life into the future. Guillermo Arrévalo, a Shipibo shaman, reported in an interview that most young indigenous people are pursuing modern, urban lifestyles, with far fewer of them undergoing the same lengthy and arduous shamanic apprenticeships as their forebears (Dobkin de Rios, 2005, p. 206). This shift away from indigenous ‘cultural roots’ suggests that capitalist values of individualism and economic prosperity have been internalized into local cultures to such an extent that indigenous identity has been reformed, a process which Rogers describes as assimilation (Rogers, 2006, pp. 480–481). However, considering that this form of assimilation can be found in almost all cultures around the world, we can conclude that this reveals little about the specific nature of ayahuasca’s appropriation.

In his critique of cultural imperialism, Tomlinson asserts that the spread of a more uniform global (capitalist) culture “cannot be read in the self-evidently negative terms that the critics of ‘cultural homogenisation’ assume” (Tomlinson, 2002, p. 103). While it may be true that the convergence of cultures is not inherently bad for the global population, it is possible to observe the ways in which certain groups lose out as a result of homogenisation. For example, the Ethnobotanical Stewardship Council (ESC) was set up in 2014 to protect those who work with ayahuasca as well as those who seek it by providing a comprehensive certification for the safety, marketing and sustainability of ayahuasca services (Peluso, 2017, pp. 213–214). Though this mission was established to help local communities, members of the global ayahuasca community released a statement critiquing the ESC, one of the reasons being that there was no indigenous representation within the organisation which made it an imposition of “Western, hegemonic, neoliberal norms upon communities in Latin America” (Ayahuasca.com, 2014). The certification scheme therefore put pressure on shamans to conform to Western ideals or face distinct disadvantage when more Western-appealing competitors were to be favoured by the ESC. The assumption that Westerners somehow have a duty to regulate ayahuasca on the behalf of native shamans undermines their autonomy and expertise. Within the context of this discussion, the ESC represented the dominance of Western culture in its capacity to dictate standards and criteria for indigenous groups to meet.

Indigenous shamans appear to be caught between two competing forces: the pull towards conformity with Western ideals and values, and the pressure to garner tourists’ interest by fitting the description of the “exotic” other. Indeed, some shamans will accentuate their indigeneity, showcasing their ethnicity in a performative way in order to appeal to Westerners seeking an ‘authentic’ ayahuasca experience (Homan, 2017, pp. 174–175). Others may even adjust their personal style to meet expectations, for example dressing in embroidered tari shirts and feather crowns, as opposed to wearing every day clothes as they do in ceremonies run for locals (Brabec de Mori, 2014, pp. 222–223). They may also remove Christian symbols from their homes in order to appear more ‘exotic’ to the tourists hoping to escape European religious institutions (Fotiou, 2014, p. 168). Interestingly, this reflects Rogers’s fourth manifestation of cultural dominance: mimicry, but in reverse. Mimicry would normally involve subordinate groups pretending to have assimilated the dominant culture’s norms and practices whilst maintaining their native culture (Rogers, 2006, p. 481). Here the shamans pretend not to have assimilated Christian elements of Western culture in order to appear more ‘authentically indigenous’ to visitors. It is therefore difficult to assert that cultural dominance is at play in this case, since shamans appear to be purposefully and performatively diverging from ‘dominant’ cultural norms.

Cultural dominance represents an intentional, even coercive, imposition of culture by the dominant upon the subordinate. Within the context of shamanic tourism, the power dynamics between indigenous communities and the Western tourists they serve may indeed limit locals’ autonomy. However, this is mainly because of the economic disadvantage they suffer in contrast with their Western counterparts. They must strive to make money where possible: one option being through the sale of ayahuasca and other items which are sought after by tourists and now hold a relatively high monetary value within the free market. Modern economic relations are dynamic, changing according to development and growth as opposed to dominance or subordinance (Veltmeyer, 2020, p. 1342). Capitalism now transcends cultural barriers; it has been so deeply-internalized in all corners of the world that to attribute its presence in the global South to imperialism would underestimate its self-sufficiency as a political and economic system (Robinson, 2007, p. 7). The drive for economic gain, while representative of a once distinctly European dogma, is now universal. Indigenous communities and their relationship with ayahuasca may be subject to the influence of Western tourists, however this can create a pressure to diverge from Western culture for economic ends as much as it incentivises convergence with dominant norms and values. It is therefore not clear that shamanic tourism strengthens Western cultural dominance in the region beyond reinforcing market-oriented relations, so we must look further to understand the ways in which indigenous communities consent to this appropriation, or refuse it.

5. Chapter Three – Cultural Exploitation

Katzarska-Miller et al. conducted a study to examine lay definitions of cultural appropriation and found that it was most popularly defined as cultural exploitation (2020). According to Rogers, cultural exploitation is “the appropriation of elements of a subordinated culture by a dominant culture without substantive reciprocity, permission and/or compensation” (2006, p. 477). Like cultural dominance, cultural exploitation is linked to imperialism and power; when elements are taken from subordinate groups without fair compensation or even permission, this reflects a truly neo-colonial extraction of resources for the benefit of dominant groups (Tupper, 2017, p. 184). The profits made from these extracted resources are “streamlined outside of local areas while the labour, expertise and intellectual property of local peoples and their lands are disadvantageously appropriated” (Peluso, 2017, p. 215). This chapter will assess the extent to which indigenous groups are exploited by the shamanic tourism industry based in Iquitos by examining the disadvantages which they experience as a result of this form of cross-cultural vegetalismo. These disadvantages fall under three main categories, namely: degradation of culture, failure to recognise sovereign claims and deprivation of material advantage. First identified as key concerns of cultural exploitation by Ziff and Rao (1997) and later referenced by Rogers (2006), these terms will be applied to the appropriation of ayahuasca practices to determine the degree to which neo-shamanism is exploitative of local communities or causes them harm.

The appropriation of the cultural elements of a subordinated culture by a dominant one can impoverish the cultural development of a source community if the elements are erroneously depicted or taken too far outside of their native context (Scafidi, 2005, p. 105). The fracturing of cultural identity which can occur as a result of this misrepresentation is referred to as degradation (Rogers, 2006, p. 486). For instance, patients would not traditionally consume ayahuasca themselves; shamans would consume the brew in order to diagnose the metaphysical cause of their patients’ illnesses and communicate with the plant spirits to find the correct remedy (Dobkin de Rios, 1970; Highpine, 2013; Tupper, 2017). Now it is tourists’ expectation not only that they will drink the brew themselves but also that their experience will be visually powerful; since this is not always the case, additional hallucinogens such as psilocin and yuremamine are now being added to some neo-shamanic brews which were never used before (Kaasik et al., 2021). Added to this, though the number of so-called shamans has increased since shamanic tourism gained popularity, the number of murailla (shamans with a profound knowledge of medicinal plants) has decreased, suggesting a move away from shamanism for healing purposes and towards profit maximisation (Dobkin de Rios, 2005).

Other elements of shamanic practice have been transformed by tourists and their expectations; in addition to healing, ayahuasca has traditionally been associated with elements of sorcery and witchcraft. However, tourists tend not to engage with the pënotonru’sa’ (brujo shamans), meaning that this has become an infrequent and somewhat hidden element of vegetalismo (Homan, 2017, p. 174). This ‘sanitization’ of the darker aspects of ayahuasca shamanism may signal that the tourist industry has had a corrosive effect on the integrity of indigenous culture. Alternatively, these changes may simply be seen as one stage in the evolution of shamanic practice, an evolution which responds to the demands of the modern world. The expectation that indigenous cultural practices only change as a result of Western influence reflects a diffusionist view, assuming that ‘progress’ must be spread to ‘peripheral’ cultures from their ‘core’ (Western) counterparts (Blaut, 1993). The diffusionist assumption that peripheral cultures will stagnate without outside influence undermines autonomous indigenous development and ultimately reinforces a neocolonial power dynamic, which is what the cultural exploitation narrative purports to derail.

Shamanic practice, and in some cases ayahuasca itself, have been transformed by tourism and commodification, which may undermine and detract from the value of this traditional medicine within its native context. These changes could be seen as an erosion of natives’ cultural integrity. As Scafidi (2005, p. 104) points out:

A cultural product reduced to the state of a mere commodity by the destruction of its intangible value is unlikely to be restored to the source community, much like a mis-appropriated trade secret or a genie that cannot be put back into the bottle.

However, these changes cannot be attributed solely to tourism; many indigenous people are involved with the sale of ayahuasca in some capacity and have a part to play in its commodification. Some locals actively seek to mislead users for personal gain, marketing their products and services with overly exoticized indigenous imagery in order to appear more authentic to visitors (Tupper, 2009, p. 126). Ayahuasca has become a commodity, meaning that its value is now dictated by supply and demand; forces which leave little room for the consideration of cultural preservation. If it makes economic sense for indigenous groups to supply the product or service which is most demanded by Western tourists (even if that strays from the ‘authentic’ version), then it is within their prerogative to do so.

Shamanic tourism may have exacerbated the imbalance of power between indigenous groups and the West by propelling a degradation of indigenous culture. However, the negation of indigenous groups’ rights to control their own cultural elements, which is referred to as “failure to recognise sovereign claims”, is perhaps a more pertinent example of these power imbalances (Rogers, 2006, p. 486). In many cases, the sovereign claims made by marginalised groups are overlooked by legal and political bodies, severely limiting their capacity for self-determination. Indeed, indigenous people are rarely included in debates on ayahuasca; in some cases requests for their involvement in public policy discussions have even been denied on the grounds that ayahuasca policy “does not concern them” (Labate and Coutinho, 2014, pp. 188–191). In this case, agency is taken away from indigenous groups who would otherwise be able to control the extent of the commodification and appropriation of their cultural elements, because this is not even considered within the realm of their concern. The exclusion of indigenous communities from decision-making processes which concern uses of their cultural property stands between these groups and their right to sovereignty.

Although it seems clear that the commodification of ayahuasca is now well underway and therefore lies outside of indigenous groups’ control, members still have agency over the extent to which they themselves engage with this process. Young writes that people are powerless when they (among other things) “have little or no work autonomy”, “have no technical expertise or authority” and “do not command respect” (1990, pp. 52–53). Conversely, indigenous shamans generally do have technical expertise, work autonomy and often command respect from Western visitors who tend to see them as wise gurus and spiritual teachers (Fotiou, 2016, p. 164). Indigenous shamans may exploit this image for economic gain, or even appropriate cultural elements of other tribes to increase income (Rogers, 2006, p. 490). It is therefore difficult to assert that indigenous groups have no control over modern uses of ayahuasca when many group members actively contribute to its use within the commercial setting. This may not always be the case; indeed some white-owned lodges take measures to prevent local shamans from selling ayahuasca to tourists in order to increase their own profits (Degan, 2017). The blocking of indigenous shamans from the tourist market not only limits their self-determination, but also the extent to which they can make a living from their profession.

A key facet of cultural exploitation is the inadequate compensation which marginalised groups often receive for the use of their cultural property by outsiders, which Ziff and Rao termed “deprivation of material advantage” (cited by Rogers, 2006, pp. 486–487). The Shipibo people consider Westerners capable of becoming powerful shamans, however are concerned by their potential to take business away from Shipibo shamans (Brabec de Mori, 2014, p. 220). This seems justified when one considers the distinct advantages which ‘white shamans’ enjoy over their indigenous counterparts. For example, ‘white shamans’ can often access funding from their home-countries to help with the costs of establishing the luxury lodges which are more likely to attract Western tourists (Peluso, 2017, p. 210). Many of them can engage with the tourist industry to a larger extent thanks to language skills which enhance opportunities for publicity and allow for greater reach within the market (Homan, 2017, p. 173). Additionally ‘white shamans’ can travel more freely as they are generally not as restricted by finances or visa regulations, and are therefore better equipped to sell their services around the world and enjoy larger profits as a result (Brabec de Mori, 2014, p. 217). This seems grossly unfair to indigenous shamans who are being overtaken within their profession, and in some instances positively ousted from the respectable positions they trained for years to reach.

Another related issue is the diminishing use of ayahuasca in the source culture, which Siems asserts as a key element of cultural exploitation (2019, p. 417). Since the surge in shamanic tourism, ayahuasca has been overharvested and must now be grown on plantations; not only affecting the quality of the brew, but also meaning that it has become much more expensive (Álvarez, 2020). Bigger, Western-owned lodges can afford to pay these higher prices while smaller, local enterprises have reduced access to the vine and are experiencing deprivation of material advantage as a result. Furthermore, the locals who may previously have used ayahuasca (or been treated by shamans who did) can no longer afford to use ayahuasca for healing, leading to a possible further decline of healthcare in Amazonian communities (Fotiou, 2014, p. 162); possibly leaving them in an weaker position not just culturally, but also materially and physically.

The exploitation of ayahuasca without renumeration to the indigenous groups who developed this medicine can be likened to biopiracy, defined as “the unethical or unlawful appropriation or commercial extraction of biological materials (such as medicinal plant extracts) that are native to a particular country or territory without providing fair financial compensation to the people or government of that country or territory” (Merriam-Webster.com, no date). The extraction of quinine, the well-known cure for malaria, from Peruvian cinchona trees was a historic example of biopiracy. Though it was indigenous groups who showed the Spanish Jesuits the powers of quinine to cure fevers, they are not credited with any degree of intellectual property of the remedy and received no compensation (Voeks and Greene, 2018). As Roht-Arraiza points out, whilst products of Western ingenuity are often protected as intellectual property, it is common for indigenous knowledge systems to be considered part of the public domain (1995, p. 929). Though this appears to be unnecessarily exclusionary to indigenous groups, there is a large degree of discord amongst experts over the extent to which cultural property can be protected by intellectual property law.

Some scholars argue that intellectual property provides the best analogy for cultural property (Scafidi, 2005, p. 13), and that the same rules should apply as for the theft of other property rights (Brunk and Young, 2009, p. 5). Though the World Intellectual Property Organization said that ‘traditional cultural expressions’ could merit protection under intellectual property laws (cited by Tupper, 2009, p. 130), it remains difficult to implement this in practice. Siems highlights the difficulty in protecting the property of racial groups, due to the difficulty in defining group boundaries (2019, p. 410). Other scholars draw attention to the conceptual incompatibility of culture and property; property law implicates a rigid control of fixed elements, whilst culture is dynamic, unstable and very difficult to regulate (Matthes, 2018). As Rogers points out, concepts of ownership come from a modern (Western) understanding of liberal possessive individualism (2006, p. 489), and Roht-Arraiza (1995, p. 956) reminds us that “for some indigenous groups, the privatization and commoditization of knowledge and of living resources is both incomprehensible and reprehensible”, which may make indigenous groups reluctant to register intellectual property of ayahuasca. This may be particularly applicable in the case of ayahuasca, which is said to create “an undifferentiated comunitas of equal individuals who share a mutual sense of identity and belonging” so that the very notion of cultural property seems improper in relation to this particular cultural product (Labate, Cavnar and Gearin, 2017). As such, it may be entirely inappropriate to expect indigenous groups to enter into processes of property registry in order to reclaim rights over the use of ayahuasca.

Ayahuasca has been a valuable asset to many indigenous groups within the Amazon region, however it now also holds value for the visitors who deem it worthy of a trip across the world. Some critics of cross-cultural vegetalismo have suggested that we should “bow down” to the ancestral knowledge of indigenous groups (see Labate, 2010, p. 37). Indeed, it is important that groups give due credit and/or compensation whenever they appropriate symbols, artifacts, genres, rituals or technologies that they themselves did not create. However, it is difficult to know where credit is really due. There are currently no legal structures for regulating the appropriation of cultural property (Scafidi, 2005, pp. 101–102) and there are therefore few ways to prevent the exploitation of ayahuasca and its traditions, especially now that most of the fundamental components of ayahuasca are disseminated online (Homan, 2017, p. 170).

Tobacco, coffee, tea, cacao, coca, the opium poppy and sugar cane have all been removed from their “traditional” setting (Tupper, 2017, p. 187), in some cases going from use in sacred or medicinal settings (e.g. tobacco) to being ‘appropriated’ by one in five adults worldwide (Ritchie and Roser, 2013). Are these instances of cultural exploitation? Perhaps, though due to the difficulty in defining the cultural origins of such elements, and in defining the cultural groups themselves, it is unlikely that any compensation would be given to group members based on claims of cultural heritage. This may be the case with ayahuasca; in practice it may be very difficult to guarantee “substantive reciprocity, permission and/or compensation” (Rogers, 2006, p. 477) in relation to the uses of ayahuasca within tourist settings such as Iquitos. It remains possible, however, to include indigenous groups in discussions on ayahuasca policy, and to ensure that they have adequate platforms for renumeration, should they choose to sell their services as shamans. In this way they can be protected from some of the exploitative elements of shamanic tourism, and can be free to choose the extent of their participation within this market.

6. Chapter Four – Transculturation

The previous three chapters have sought to explain the conditions in which the appropriation of ayahuasca takes place largely through lenses of power, influence and control. However, Rogers puts forward another way of thinking about cultural appropriation; one which takes into consideration that cultures are not distinct nor fixed, but rather conjunctural and dynamic (2006, p. 495). Transculturation describes processes of cultural fusion through which new cultural forms emerge, “such that identification of a single originating culture is problematic” (Ibid., p. 477), such as in the production of Hopi kachina dolls, which are produced by traditional Native artists using non-traditional materials (Katzarska-Miller et al., 2020, p. 582). The term ‘transculturation’ was coined by Fernando Ortiz in 1940 to replace the term ‘acculturation’, which was in common use at the time and denoted the supposed acquisition of culture by indigenous or otherwise ‘primitive’ peoples from their ‘civilised’ counterparts (1995, pp. 97–103). The term was welcomed into anthropological institutions, particularly in relation to Latin American studies, as it offered a new way of considering the complex and varied phenomena which take place as cultures fuse together, as has been a very prominent feature in Latin American history (Rama, 2012, p. 19). Transculturation may be the only framework to consider the apparent inevitability of cultural hybridity, particularly within the context of globalisation and the constant opportunity for cultural interaction which it presents (Kraidy, 2002, p. 332). This chapter will look at the appropriation of ayahuasca through this fourth and final lens; by observing both the origins of its use and its current situation within the modern, globalised world, I will argue that cross-cultural vegetalismo can be seen as a product of transculturation.

The discourse surrounding cultural appropriation and particularly cultural exploitation reflects a Western tendency to expect culture to be a fixed and continuous entity (Clifford, 1988, p. 233). The assumption that cultural elements, or even culture itself, can be ‘pure’ creates a pressure for groups to demonstrate authenticity in their symbols, artifacts, rituals, genres, and/or technologies in order to validate their identity within the global landscape (Killmister, 2011). In reality, the constantly changing social, economic and political circumstances mean that true cultural ‘authenticity’ is very difficult to prove (Scafidi, 2005, p. 410), which demonstrates transculturation’s value in not requiring that a “single, originating culture” be identified (Rogers, 2006, p. 477). Nowhere is this more evident than in the cultures of Latin America, where the term mestizaje has been used to denote the widespread racial and cultural blending which has taken place since the arrival of the Spanish around the turn of the 15th century (Kraidy, 2005, p. 2). The difficulty in proving cultural ownership may be particularly acute in the case of ayahuasca given that the true origins of the brew are contested. A common assumption is that indigenous groups have been using ayahuasca for thousands of years, however scholars are now putting forward evidence to suggest that for most indigenous communities it emerged within the last three hundred years (Gow, 1994; Shepard, 1998; Brabec de Mori, 2011).

The Shipibo community, located along the Ucayali river in the Amazon rainforest, tend to be associated with a long-standing relationship with ayahuasca; some scholars refer to their extensive knowledge on the properties and benefits of ayahuasca (Rios, 2005; Peluso, 2017), and others to the recreation of their culture in modern ayahuasca merchandise (Fotiou, 2014, p. 167). However, Brabec de Mori (2011, p. 35) suggests that the Shipibo themselves appropriated ayahuasca from outsiders in relatively modern times. The icaros performed during Shipibo ayahuasca ceremonies are sung in Quechua, rather than in the native Shipibo language (2011, pp. 35–42), which is the same for icaros sung by the great majority of Amazonian communities (Highpine, 2013). Quechua is a widely recognised lingua franca in South America, suggesting that this fundamental part of ayahuasca tradition was brought into being under circumstances of intercultural mixing. Particularly during the boom of the rubber-tapping industry in the 1800s, Spanish colonisers established encomiendas throughout the Amazon: camps where indigenous people were exploited for their labour (Labate, Cavnar and Gearin, 2017, pp. 4–5). The establishment of encomiendas may be significant to understanding the development of ayahuasca practice within the Amazon, as it offers a credible explanation of how knowledge of the brew may have spread relatively quickly between communities which shared Quechua as a lingua franca. This suggests that the traditions with which we now associate ayahuasca are themselves a product of cultural blending, proliferated by circumstance and later exotified by Western narratives. It is therefore possible that shamanic tourism is not tearing at the seams of anything especially sacred or ancient, but is instead just continuing to shape an already malleable practice.

Some groups, such as the Guarani, have almost no historical ties to ayahuasca whatsoever; they were introduced to the brew in the 20th century by non-indigenous neo-shamans and it has since become an integral part of Guarani ceremonial life (Labate and Coutinho, 2014, p. 184). The Guarani, as an indigenous group who now consider ayahuasca important to their cultural identity, may be being wrongfully appropriated by Western tourists who seek to use ayahuasca within a commercial setting. However, through another lens the Guarani’s use of ayahuasca could be seen as appropriation in and of itself, exploiting the longer history of ayahuasca in other groups such as the Shipibo community. Even so, it is difficult for any group to prove absolute ownership of ayahuasca, obfuscating the notion of it having originated with any single culture and reinforcing the idea that, far from being a static or fixed cultural form, it is a product of dynamic cultural interaction. If the brew has been shared among different native communities for the last few centuries, perhaps ayahuasca tourism is just an extension of this within the context of globalisation.

In the 21st century there is an unprecedented flow of people, information and cultural forms around the world, which is fuelling processes of transculturation as cultures are meeting and fusing more than ever before (Kraidy, 2002). For example, the internet connects people all over the world and is facilitating the rise in shamanic tourism; specialised websites such as Aya Advisor serve as platforms for tourists to find and review ayahuasca experiences, much like Trip Advisor (which can also be used to review ayahuasca lodges) (Peluso, 2017, pp. 210–211). Alongside the internet, increased mobility and interconnected global markets also contribute to the integration of even the most remote areas into the transnational sphere (Labate, Cavnar and Gearin, 2017, p. 2). As such, indigenous groups are not operating as bounded or separate from the rest of the world, and will therefore be open to the same processes of modernisation as a form of cultural adaptation. To assume that these cultures would or even could remain ‘pure’ from the influence of these globalizing forces would “do as much to perpetuate (neo)-colonial relations as to overcome them” (Rogers, 2006, p. 494). In assuming that certain groups will remain separate from the rest of the modern world, or even outright excluding them, we risk inhibiting the control they have over their own cultural trajectory and limiting their development to what we (Westerners) expect of them.

Some scholars have argued that globalisation is creating a homogenised global society (e.g. Schiller, 1991), while others argue that globalisation engenders hybridisation which can actually enrich the global landscape by contributing new and distinct cultural forms. For example, Pieterse argues that amplified global relations increase opportunities for intercultural ‘mélange’ (1994, pp. 167–172). An acknowledgement of the possibility that new cultural forms can be just as valid as their ‘parent’ forms may serve to empower hybrid groups, rather than reverting to a rhetoric which depicts them as second-rate and inauthentic copies of a pure or original form. Similarly, transculturation “resists considering the country’s own traditional culture as if it were passive, inferior to the foreign culture that would modify it, destined for great losses, and lacking any means to respond creatively.” (Rama, 2012, p. 19). Shamans have long been encouraged to expand their networks (their ‘ayllu’ - family) and gain knowledge of the world as a way to become more wise (Homan, 2017, p. 175). We cannot assume that their cultural integrity is harmed in the simple act of interacting with outside groups, as this would be to expect an unnatural degree of wholeness and continuity which is unlikely of any culture, no matter how protected they are from the forces of globalisation.

As has been demonstrated, many shamans enter willingly into the capitalist agreement, selling their services in order to profit from the significant economic opportunities presented by the ayahuasca tourism industry. Shamans are exercising agency over their engagement with tourists who seek ayahuasca since, as Kraidy points out, “agency must be grasped in terms of people’s ability to accomplish things in the world they inhabit” (2005, p. 151) . If the forces of transnational capitalism have made the commodification of ayahuasca inevitable (Tupper, 2017), then shamans are simply playing the hand they have been dealt, and adapting their cultural elements as necessary. For better or worse, a new form of shamanism has emerged: an entrepreneurial form which combines elements of modern capitalism, somewhat exoticized Western expectations, and pre-existing indigenous cultural forms. This does not mean that the ‘original’ culture has succumbed, simply that it has changed as cultures are (and always have been) bound to do. Like many groups throughout history, indigenous communities have undergone processes of compromise, subversion, masking, invention and revival in order to renegotiate their identity within the modern environment (Clifford, 1988, p. 338). In relation to ayahuasca shamanism, Dawson conceptualises this process of transculturation as retraditionalisation, which involves “the recapitulation of traditional beliefs and practices in a way that engenders not only their reconfiguration but also the invention of new traditions” (Dawson, 2017, p. 22). Whether under the name of hybridisation, retraditionalisation or transculturation, the changing nature of ayahuasca shamanism is reflective of the general tendency for culture to evolve in response to environment and circumstances.

Similarly, increased contact with shamanism is having an effect on Westerners, and may eventually create a change broad enough to challenge dominant Western attributes. Dobkin de Rios (2008, p. 104) writes that “alienation, fragmentation, and a sense of confusion and meaninglessness pervade Western society”. These feelings of disconnection and separation may be contributing to the demand for ayahuasca among members of the urban middle-class, as observed by shaman Marina Sinti (cited by Londoño and Ferguson, 2020). Cross-cultural vegetalismo, though rooted in a capitalist framework of exchange, may have the potential to facilitate a kind of spiritual awakening for thousands of Westerners who visit the Amazon each year and feel disillusioned with the institutionalised religions of the West (Fotiou, 2014, p. 165). According to Shipibo shaman Guillermo Arrévalo, despite the radical changes to Amazonian societies, many of the fundamental elements of indigenous knowledge and culture have endured:

Knowledge is the renewable source of the Amazon. I believe that no one has taken it away. Thus, we have to set off on the path of improvement on the basis of our knowledge. There is no other way to development. (cited by Dobkin de Rios, 2005, p. 207).

Perhaps shamanic tourism may help to give indigenous groups a platform to share their knowledge and harness its power to effect positive changes outside of their immediate communities. In this case, transculturation can be understood as a process by which old forms give way to new ones which are more befitting of the times.

Transculturation accounts for the inevitable transformations which cultures undergo, removing focus from intercultural power dynamics which are often too complex to understand in the binary terms of “equal”, “subordinate” and “dominant” (Kraidy, 2002, p. 333). This is not to disregard the implications of cultural dominance and exploitation; indigenous groups may indeed lose out on this current arrangement, as many groups do within the capitalist world system (Simon, 2011). Power imbalances between indigenous groups and Westerners, both tourists and neo-shamans, mean that the processes of cultural fusion discussed within this chapter cannot be qualified as cultural exchange. Transculturation concedes the possibility (and even probability) of unequal power dynamics while leaving space to acknowledge “the radically different nature of appropriation in the global-local contexts of transnational capitalism” (Rogers, 2006, p. 493). Indigenous groups will not remain outside of the clutches of modernity, and certainly should not be barred from it on the pretext of ‘their own good’. Speaking about the culturally appropriative nature of tourism, Gertner holds that agency is key: “place-marketers must listen to leaders of communities involved, engage members of the groups, and assure that they approve of and benefit from the dissemination and commercialization of their cultural elements” (2019, p.4). Transculturation may be the perspective most likely to help agents to work towards Gertner’s maxim; if we accept the inevitability of cultural appropriation whilst also accounting for the inequality implicit in postcolonial relations, perhaps indigenous groups can start to feel empowered within the modern environment.

7. Conclusion

At a time when mental health disorders such as depression, anxiety and addiction are rife in modern Western society and when our apparent detachment from nature has engendered widespread environmental degradation, it seems that modern life creates a sense of alienation between individuals and their surroundings. Ayahuasca, like other psychedelic plant medicines, has the potential to restore some balance in the way we relate to ourselves, to others, and to the Earth, and may help individuals to overcome these pernicious feelings of separation.

It is therefore important to undertake rigorous cost-benefit analyses of ayahuasca use as it becomes increasingly popular throughout the world (Harms, 2021). An important cost which we must consider is the possible harm which may be caused to the indigenous communities who first discovered the healing potential of this psychoactive decoction. This dissertation has addressed shamanic tourism as just one expression of Western ayahuasca use, and has attempted to assess the degree to which this can be considered wrongful cultural appropriation. Further study is required to examine the ways in which use of ayahuasca outside of the Amazon may be more or less appropriative than shamanic tourism, and to assess the ways in which indigenous groups can be helped to further develop their autonomy within the shamanic tourist setting.

Through my assessment of Rogers’s four forms of cultural appropriation in relation to shamanic tourism, I found that transculturation is the most appropriate lens through which we can view Western appropriation of ayahuasca practices. The term was coined in order to overcome diffusionist attitudes concerning the ‘acquisition’ of culture in Latin America, instead seeking to validate hybridity and celebrate products of cultural fusion. It seems appropriate to consider ayahuasca tourism within this narrative of ‘transculturation’, given that cross-cultural vegetalismo is based upon a hybrid form of modern-indigenous shamanism. Ayahuasca is a valuable resource upon which indigenous groups have the opportunity to capitalise, especially given the willingness demonstrated by Westerners to travel to destinations such as Iquitos in order to engage with the brew in its native context. The entrepreneurialism now employed by shamans may have been influenced by Western culture, but to assume that they acquired it from Westerners would be to maintain the diffusionism critiqued by Ortiz when he first coined the term transculturation (1995). Moreover, similar manifestations of globalisation have been documented all over the world; few cultures remain free from the influence of capitalism, but this does not necessarily mean that they have been corrupted (Tomlinson, 2002). Expectations that cultures will preserve all of their traditional elements in today’s global landscape of unprecedented interconnectedness are not only unrealistic, but may also serve to undermine the hybrid cultural forms which emerge as a result of increased contact with outsiders.

Both ‘cultural dominance’ and ‘cultural exploitation’ rest on the assumption that cultures operate as separate and essential entities. To protect cultures from domination or exploitation, we would need a categorical definition of each (isolated) culture and a registry of who belongs to them (Siems, 2019). These processes would be completely unbefitting to the dynamic nature of culture; no culture remains free from outside influence, and the struggle for power between groups is an ongoing tug-of-war rather than a definitive triumph of one over the other (Clifford, 1988). If we assume that, in the case of shamanic tourism, indigenous groups are the ‘subordinate’ people while Westerners play the ‘dominant’ part, there leaves little room to consider that indigenous groups can reclaim agency and control in their interactions with Westerners. Although indigenous groups are often disadvantaged within the tourist setting, especially by ‘white’ neo-shamans who sometimes take business from locals, indigenous shamans retain agency in their interactions with Westerners, and are respected within their profession by the international community.

Nevertheless, as Fotiou (2016, p. 170) argues, “Westerners who want to have a more meaningful exchange with the traditions they admire should also keep in mind that they are engaging with these traditions from a position of privilege”. This Western privilege gives members of the ‘new middle-class’ the choice to engage with ayahuasca if they feel a calling to do so, while many indigenous groups may offer their homes and services to tourists because they have few other ways to earn a living (Brabec de Mori, 2014). For this reason, the notion that ayahuasca tourism could be a form of ‘cultural exchange’ is also inappropriate; to disregard the one-sidedness of the cultural lending which is manifest in places such as Iquitos would be to underestimate the extent of Western privilege. Even so, the inequality between indigenous groups and Western tourists does not define their interactions. Narratives which employ binary understandings of ‘dominant’ versus ‘subordinate’ may do more to reinforce this dichotomy than they do to overcome it, limiting the credence afforded to indigenous agency and resilience.

No group should be governed by outsiders’ expectations of them, or excluded from modernity based on someone else’s assessment of what is good for them. Though the global capitalist system may strengthen the dominance of powerful societies to the detriment of others, marginalised groups cannot (and indeed should not) be shielded from this system. Instead, they “should be better equipped to choose the paths they take, without the cultural impositions (or imperialisms) of Western experts of either the Right of the Left” (Brantlinger, 1993, p. 1695). In this way, it is crucial that we champion the agency of groups to govern their own cultural direction, as one of the most basic concessions to their autonomy. Even if, as Eliade (1959, p. 13) argued, “the modern man has desacralized his world and assumed a profane existence”, indigenous people should too be given freedom, if they so desired, to desacralize, to commercialise, and to modernise. Only free from the constraints of our expectations will they be able to forge their own path.

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