Guru Nation: Shamans in a Global Village

The EGA amphitheatre hummed with post‑lunch electricity: shafts of golden light filtered through gum trees, and the hum of cicadas blended with the low buzz of conversation. People were sitting forward on their wooden benches, notebooks ready, eyes bright. There was a sense that this wasn't just another panel; it was a gathering to wrestle with questions that touch the core of our shared human story. When I asked aloud, What does 'shaman' mean in a global village?, it was as if the circle itself leaned closer, ready to dive deep. This was about more than anthropology; it was about healing, identity, and the future of culture.

The word that bites back

Neil Pike set the tone with words that cut through any remaining haze of festival sentimentality. His voice had the edge of someone who had seen many cycles of idealism rise and fall, and his first statement landed like a lightning strike:

The audience shifted, some smiling wryly, others looking startled. Neil wasn't here to coddle anyone; he wanted to confront. He followed up with a direct challenge:

You could feel the weight of the word colonialism in the air. It forced everyone present to consider the uncomfortable lineage of Western extraction, of taking, packaging, and selling even the sacred. Neil's stance wasn't meant to shut down the conversation but to sharpen it, to make sure that whatever "shamanism" meant to us, it wasn't just a costume we put on.

Steve McDonald responded with a gentler, more expansive vision, reminding us that culture itself is cyclical and that this resurgence might be something more organic than theft:

He spoke about our era as a hinge point, a time when we are swinging back from radical individualism toward a more communal way of being. Steve suggested that this yearning for shamans and rituals is part of humanity remembering how to live together again. His words softened the tension Neil had provoked, reframing it as a collective rite of passage.

Then Rachel Gagan brought the discussion back to earth with her insistence on clarity of language:

Her comment reminded us that words carry expectations. In a secular, individualistic culture, she said, perhaps what we need most are not shamans but facilitators, skilled, grounded space‑holders who can allow each person to do their own work. She went on to tackle the issue of money with refreshing candour:

The audience laughed, but it was a knowing laugh; everyone recognised the tension around money in spiritual work. Rachel's point was that transparency disarms exploitation and restores balance to the exchange.

Lineage, training, and who gets to say

When Dr. Joe Tafur spoke, the entire space seemed to quieten. His tone was calm, his words deliberate, carrying the gravity of someone who has been through years of apprenticeship deep in the Amazon.

You could almost hear the rustle of leaves as people let that sink in. Joe's statement transported us from the conference amphitheatre into a maloca at night, with medicine songs floating through the air and a fire crackling. He spoke of the years of dedication it takes to embody the role truly.

There was a murmur of respect. This was not theoretical; this was lived experience, the slow forging of a healer through hundreds of ceremonies and diets. Joe's call to action was clear:

His words were not accusatory but protective, a reminder that the well‑being of participants depends on the integrity of those guiding them. The conversation turned from philosophical to practical: what structures can we build to ensure safety and accountability?

Sorcery, shadow, and the neutral container

James Oroc brought in the shadow, the part of the conversation many prefer to leave out. He spoke with the candour of someone who has walked both mystical and intellectual paths:

There was a low murmur among the crowd; this was not a comfortable truth. James explained that shamanism has always included both light and dark, and that ignoring its shadow does a disservice to its power. He advocated for what he called a neutral, minimal approach, particularly with potent medicines:

"I'm a great fan of the neutral container… someone to keep you safe and warm, put you in the recovery position if you throw up, and otherwise leave you alone.", James Oroc.

This was a call for simplicity, for not interfering with another person's journey. And then he posed the question that reframed the whole discussion: "Why is it always healing?"

It was as though a trapdoor opened under the conversation. Did everything need to be medicalised? Was it permissible to seek psychedelics simply for exploration, for awe? James' question invited us to hold space for curiosity, play, and transcendence, experiences that don't fit neatly into clinical boxes.

Safety when it's underground

Joe's voice returned, steady and serious, and the atmosphere shifted into a more sober register.

The image was stark: a teacher, a centre, a lineage that no longer felt safe, and the courage to leave. Joe reminded us that when legality is absent, discernment is our primary safeguard. The audience listened intently, some nodding, perhaps remembering their own difficult decisions. It was a moment that grounded the conversation in personal responsibility.

Then Rachel brought the conversation back to a planetary perspective with a statement as short as it was profound:

Her words were followed by a long pause as we all considered the shift this implies. What if plants are not resources but partners? What if the intelligence of the biosphere is calling us back into right relationship? James added his own perspective, reminding us that the awakening is not just botanical but chemical:

This was a bridge between two worlds, the synthetic and the natural, both conspiring to wake us up. The section ended with a sense that consciousness will use every available tool to reach us if we are willing to listen.

Midwives of death and rebirth

I then shared my reflections from the Crossroads Clinic in Mexico, a place where ibogaine treatment is combined with 5‑MeO‑DMT to create a profound sequence of release and renewal. What struck me most was not the medicines themselves but the people holding space:

The term was not metaphorical; they had the energy of birth workers, calm in the presence of intensity, ready to catch whatever emerged from the depths of the psyche. And this image stayed with me: "Midwifery for the soul."

It was a vision of what our culture could become, one where guidance is intimate, not theatrical; where power is shared, not hoarded. The idea of midwives for collective transformation felt like the perfect synthesis of everything the panel had explored.

By the time we closed, the amphitheatre felt different. People were thoughtful, some visibly moved. We had not solved the riddle of what a shaman is, but we had turned the question into a living inquiry. Together we had named the risks, celebrated the possibilities, and committed to integrity. Perhaps that is the task of our time: to keep holding this question until the culture itself remembers, until the role of the shaman is not projected onto the few but carried, carefully and consciously, by the many.