The humid air clings to your skin like a second layer, thick with the scent of wet earth and something ancient you can’t quite name.
Mosquitoes buzz in your ears while the icaros—sacred songs—drift through the darkness, accompanied by the rhythmic shake of the chakapa leaf bundle.
You’re sitting in a circle with twenty other seekers, waiting for the medicine to take hold.
This scene plays out nightly across countless retreat centers from Peru to Costa Rica, where Westerners pay thousands of dollars for what they believe is authentic shamanic healing.
I witnessed this transformation firsthand during my years documenting traditional plant medicine practices in the Amazon basin.
What started as research for wellness brands I worked with became a deep dive into how Western capitalism has repackaged indigenous wisdom into something almost unrecognizable.
The truth about what’s happening in these retreat centers might challenge everything you think you know about ayahuasca tourism.
The commodification of sacred medicine
Traditional ayahuasca ceremonies in indigenous communities look nothing like what most Westerners experience.
In the villages I visited along the Ucayali River, the medicine was prepared by elders who’d spent decades learning from their ancestors.
These weren’t week-long retreats with yoga classes and integration circles.
Ceremonies happened when the community needed healing, not on a predetermined schedule designed to maximize profit.
The shamans I worked alongside didn’t advertise on Instagram or promise life transformation in seven days.
They served their communities, treating everything from physical ailments to spiritual imbalances, often for little more than a meal or small trade.
Now, retreat centers charge $3,000 to $10,000 per week, marketing ayahuasca as the ultimate tool for self-optimization.
The irony is staggering when you consider that many indigenous communities who’ve safeguarded this knowledge for generations struggle to afford basic healthcare.
When tradition meets transaction
The most troubling pattern I observed was how quickly money corrupted even well-intentioned projects.
I watched a respected curandero gradually shift his practice after partnering with Western investors.
Within two years, his simple maloca transformed into a luxury eco-lodge complete with air conditioning and gourmet vegan meals.
The ceremonies grew larger, sometimes hosting forty people instead of the traditional handful.
He began offering “express healing” packages and started training apprentices after just months instead of years.
His own community members could no longer afford to attend ceremonies in the space their ancestors had used for generations.
This same story repeated across dozens of centers I visited.
The pressure to meet Western expectations and maintain profitable operations fundamentally changed how the medicine was administered.
Safety protocols that evolved over centuries were abandoned for efficiency.
Integration became a buzzword rather than the months-long process traditionally expected after working with the medicine.
The facilitator problem
Perhaps nothing illustrates the industry’s dysfunction better than the explosion of self-proclaimed shamans.
During my time in Peru, I met countless Westerners who’d done a few ceremonies, maybe completed a brief training, then returned home to lead their own circles.
One man I encountered had spent three weeks at a retreat center before declaring himself ready to serve medicine.
He now runs ceremonies in California, charging $500 per person.
Traditional training takes decades.
The curanderos I studied with began learning as children, spending years in isolation, following strict dietas, and slowly building relationships with plant spirits.
They understood not just how to serve the medicine, but how to navigate the spiritual dimensions it opens.
More concerning are the safety implications.
I documented numerous cases where untrained facilitators:
• Mixed ayahuasca with other substances without understanding interactions
• Failed to screen participants for medications or mental health conditions
• Couldn’t handle psychological crises that emerged during ceremonies
• Sexually violated participants in vulnerable states
These aren’t isolated incidents but systematic failures in an unregulated industry more focused on profit than healing.
Cultural extraction at its finest
The Western ayahuasca industry represents a masterclass in cultural appropriation.
We’ve taken a sacred practice, stripped it of cultural context, and repackaged it for consumption.
The same people who’d never dream of commodifying communion wine or Buddhist meditation retreats see no issue with turning indigenous medicine into a luxury product.
During my years studying various cultural practices, I’ve learned that true wisdom traditions can’t be separated from their cultural foundations.
The worldview that sees plants as teachers, the community structures that support integration, the reciprocal relationship with nature—these aren’t add-ons to the medicine.
They are the medicine.
Yet retreat centers extract just the psychoactive experience, wrapping it in Western psychology and New Age spirituality.
Participants leave thinking they’ve experienced authentic shamanism when they’ve actually consumed a sanitized simulation designed for Western sensibilities.
The real cost of spiritual tourism
Environmental destruction follows wherever ayahuasca tourism spreads.
The vine that takes years to mature is being overharvested to meet demand.
Areas that once held abundant medicine now require traveling hours into the jungle to find mature plants.
Local communities face rising living costs as retreat centers drive up prices.
Young people abandon traditional practices to work as translators and assistants for Western visitors.
The social fabric that held these communities together for generations unravels as money becomes the primary value.
I met families torn apart by disputes over who could rightfully profit from their ancestral knowledge.
Elders watched helplessly as their grandchildren pursued quick money from tourists rather than learning traditional ways.
The very communities that preserved this medicine for humanity are being destroyed by our hunger for it.
Finding authentic practice
Despite these problems, I don’t believe the answer is for Westerners to completely avoid plant medicine.
The insights and healing these traditions offer are genuine and needed.
But we must radically reimagine our approach.
Real engagement starts with supporting indigenous communities on their terms, not ours.
This might mean contributing to land preservation, healthcare, or education without expecting ceremony access in return.
If you do choose to work with these medicines, seek out indigenous-led initiatives where profits directly benefit local communities.
Be willing to adapt to their timeline and approach rather than demanding they conform to your vacation schedule.
Most importantly, recognize that a few ceremonies don’t make you an expert or give you the right to lead others.
Final thoughts
My years in the Amazon taught me that true healing can’t be purchased or consumed.
The Western ayahuasca industry sells transformation, but transformation requires more than drinking a brew in an exotic location.
The indigenous peoples I learned from understand that medicine work is about relationship—with plants, with community, with the earth itself.
These relationships take time, humility, and genuine reciprocity to develop.
As someone who’s dedicated years to understanding these practices, I still consider myself a perpetual student.
The question isn’t whether Westerners should engage with plant medicine, but whether we’re willing to do so in ways that honor rather than extract.
Can we support indigenous communities without colonizing their practices?
Can we receive healing without demanding it be packaged for our convenience?
The future of these sacred traditions depends on how we answer these questions.
