Bridging the Amazon and the Balkans: An Interview with Prof. Dr. Maja T. Izquierdo
In this wide-ranging interview, Prof. Dr. Izquierdo reflects on her unique experience navigating the cultural and spiritual landscapes of both the Amazon and the Balkans. In the Amazon, particularly among the Asháninka, the concept of "psychedelic" is understood not through pharmacology but through spiritual and relational terms—plants are seen as sacred beings (rao or oni) and teachers that demand reverence and reciprocity.
She highlights how Western reductionism and commercialization have distorted traditional practices, simplifying complex rituals into consumable experiences. In Serbia, where psychedelics remain heavily stigmatized and criminalized, there is nonetheless a quiet revival unfolding, driven by therapists, youth, and scholars exploring alternative paths to healing. Drawing from her dual heritage, Izquierdo advocates for intercultural and interdisciplinary dialogue, emphasizing that true engagement with entheogens must involve cultural humility, ecological awareness, and relational depth. Her work serves as a bridge between Indigenous cosmologies and Western systems, challenging biomedical reductionism and reclaiming the spiritual, communal, and ethical dimensions of psychedelic practice. She underscores that both ayahuasca and the landscapes it arises from are not commodities, but living relationships—sacred not in opposition to the profane, but through deep connection.
4 Questions We Ask Every Guest
1. What does the term “psychedelic” mean in your community? If there’s an equivalent word or phrase your community members use to describe the “psychedelic” experience? Please share and explain. How do psychedelics impact your community, hometown and country?
In the Amazonian Indigenous communities I’ve lived with—especially among the Asháninka, there is no direct word for “psychedelic.” Instead, these plants are referred to as rao (medicine), oni (spirit beings), or sacred plant teachers, and the experiences are described as learning, vision, or communion.
The term “sacred” is borrowed and imperfect—rooted in Catholic vocabulary, but still closer to the reverence these plants demand than any modern alternative. In Serbia and the broader Balkans, the term “psychedelic” carries stigma or confusion, often associated with Western counterculture or drug use. At the same time, there is a growing interest in their therapeutic and spiritual potential, especially among younger generations, therapists, and researchers. In both regions—Serbia and Peru—these plants are deeply misunderstood, yet increasingly sought after.
2. What’s happening in your country in regards to psychedelics that the rest of the world doesn’t know?
In Peru, particularly in the Amazon region, I believe there is already significant international awareness of what’s happening. Ayahuasca tourism has brought global attention, for better and worse, to Indigenous practices and ceremonial use of entheogens. While this visibility has helped preserve some traditions, it has also led to misrepresentation, commodification, and even exploitation. What remains far less known, however, is the situation in Serbia, the other country that shapes my identity.
In Serbia, psychedelics are strictly illegal and classified as controlled substances. Even small amounts can lead to prison sentences of up to three years, and larger quantities can result in penalties of up to ten years. Despite this harsh legal framework, there is a quiet but growing interest in psychedelics among psychotherapists, academics, and younger generations seeking alternative paths to healing and self-understanding.
There is no formal infrastructure for psychedelic therapy or research, yet informal communities and initiatives are emerging—offering education, peer integration, and support for those who have had psychedelic experiences abroad. Because of the legal risks and cultural stigma, much of this work takes place underground or in private.
What the world doesn’t often see is that even in countries with conservative laws and strong post-socialist skepticism toward anything “spiritual” or “non-rational,” there is an awakening happening. People are beginning to question dominant paradigms and explore deeper models of consciousness and trauma healing. In Serbia, the conversation is just beginning, but it’s alive, urgent, and deeply human.
3. Where do you see the psychedelic revival going in the future?
The psychedelic revival is entering a complex and critical phase. On one side, we are witnessing increasing scientific interest and clinical validation, particularly in the treatment of trauma, depression, and end-of-life anxiety. Regulatory shifts and institutional research are lending legitimacy to what was previously relegated to the margins of science and culture.
Yet this momentum also carries inherent risks. There is a tendency to reduce psychedelic experience to its neurochemical basis or therapeutic outcome, neglecting the relational, spiritual, and ecological dimensions that are central in many traditional contexts. The commodification of sacred plants, the rise of retreat tourism, and the language of “optimization” reflect a framework still rooted in extraction and individualism.
If this revival is to be sustainable and ethically grounded, it must move beyond the biomedical paradigm and into true intercultural dialogue. This means engaging Indigenous epistemologies not as exotic supplements, but as sophisticated systems of knowledge in their own right. It also requires interdisciplinary collaboration between science, philosophy, psychology, anthropology, and ecology.
As someone working at the intersection of transpersonal psychology, Indigenous knowledge, and architectural-spatial consciousness, I believe the future lies in building bridges, not only between cultures, but between ways of knowing. The psychedelic revival will only fulfill its potential if it remains in dialogue with memory, land, community, and spirit.
4. How does the work you do contribute to the psychedelic revival and into the future?
My work contributes to the psychedelic revival by creating bridges—between Indigenous knowledge and Western psychology, between traditional ritual and contemporary therapy, between silence and scientific discourse.
As a Serbian-Peruvian professor, psychotherapist, and transdisciplinary researcher, I operate at the intersection of academic scholarship and lived experience. I have spent over two decades in dialogue with Asháninka communities in the Peruvian Amazon, not as an observer, but as a relative and apprentice. I bring this relational and embodied understanding into academic, therapeutic, and intercultural spaces in Europe—particularly in Serbia, where the psychedelic conversation is still in its infancy and often burdened by stigma.
Through teaching, publishing, and public speaking, I advocate for ethical engagement with entheogens and the integration of expanded states of consciousness into psychology, education, and even design. My work emphasizes preparation, integration, and cultural humility. I do not replicate Indigenous ceremonies. I support people in understanding the depth behind them, and I argue for a model of care that includes ecological, ancestral, and spiritual dimensions.
Looking to the future, I believe my role is to help shape a more pluralistic, dialogical, and ethically accountable field—one in which the psychedelic experience is not isolated from its context, but embedded in systems of reciprocity, reverence, and responsibility.
Personalized Questions Curated for Our Guests
5. Your mother is from the Amazon and your father is from Serbia. At the age of 20 you discovered your grandfather’s journal. Afterwards, you began a journey to reconnect with your ancestral Indigenous heritage. You lived various times with the Asháninka people, and you witnessed firsthand the role of entheogens within a broader spiritual, social, and ecological context.
What did you discover in your grandfather’s journal that inspired you to reconnect with your ancestral Indigenous heritage? Also who are the Asháninka people and what did you learn from them?
Yes, my mother is from Peruvian rainforest. She was born in Moyobamba, and father was from Serbia, Belgrade. When I was twenty, I found my grandfather’s handwritten journal (mother’s father) He was of predominantly Asháninka origin, and in his notes he described his early life in the forest, his exile, and his longing for the tinkarentsi—the collective spirit of the forest, rivers, animals, and ancestral presence. The journal was a whisper from the past, filled with fragments of the shirampari (dreams and visions), names of medicinal plants (rao), and ritual songs (esho) he once heard from sheripiari (healers). One entry simply read: “If you forget the forest, the forest forgets you.” That sentence changed my life. It led me back, as a granddaughter, not as a researcher or tourist. I lived among the Asháninka people, periodically for twenty years, whose resilience, humor, and cosmological depth deeply transformed me.
The Asháninka are one of the largest Indigenous nations of the Peruvian Amazon, part of the Arawakan linguistic family. Their cosmovisión is based on a relational understanding of existence: humans, animals, plants, spirits, and the forest itself are all interconnected. Healing is not a mechanical process, it is a rebalancing of one’s relationship to the living world. Illness may come from broken kinship, disrespected taboos, or forgotten ancestors.
From the sheripiari (shaman), I learned that working with rao is not just about ingesting a plant. It is about listening to it, dreaming with it, and following its teachings over time. I participated in dieta, long periods of isolation and silence with one plant teacher at a time. I learned that esho (known just as Icaros) are energetic pathways that open communication with the oni, the invisible forces of the forest.
Most importantly, I learned to unlearn. I learned that knowledge is not power: it is relationship. And that memory, when honored with humility, can become medicine.
6. You discuss how the use of ayahuasca is frequently modified to suit the expectations of Western tourists—both in terms of how it is administered and how Indigenous cosmologies are selectively reinterpreted or simplified for easier consumption. This shift often serves commercial interests rather than spiritual or communal ones.
In specific terms, how are ayahuasca ceremonies modified to suit Westerners? I have heard that indigenous ayahuasca ceremonies sometimes include spiritual warfare and casting spells on fellow community members. Is this true, and is this an example of something removed from ayahuasca ceremonies to satisfy foreigners?
Yes, it is true that in traditional Indigenous settings, ayahuasca (rao) ceremonies can involve dimensions far beyond healing or vision. These include what Western frameworks might call spiritual warfare, energetic protection, dream-based diagnosis, and even retaliatory actions against perceived psychic or communal threats.
In Asháninka culture, illness is not only physiological. It can result from broken relational ties, ancestral imbalance, or intentional spiritual harm. The sheripiari (healer, shaman) is a spiritual strategist who operates within a cosmology where the visible and invisible worlds are always in tension. During specific nights, like Moon nights or Night of gratitude a Pabinkari (a ritual of gratitude to the highest deity)—the ayahuasca is prepared differently, and the esho (ceremonial chants) call upon forces that can protect, cleanse, or counter spiritual aggression (kamatsari).
Yes, there are contexts where the sheripiari may send or block energetic currents, using specific plant allies not to harm arbitrarily, but to restore balance or defend the community. These practices are highly codified, often secretive, and embedded in ethical frameworks not easily translatable to Western dualisms like good/evil.
However, in ceremonies offered to Westerners (often in retreat settings) these aspects are almost entirely removed. The brews are standardized, dosages uniform, chants simplified into aesthetically pleasing icaros. The confrontational or defensive aspects of the tradition are left out—not only because they are difficult to explain across cultural paradigms, but also because most visitors come seeking healing, peace, and personal vision, not spiritual confrontation. There is also a concern that foreigners may misunderstand or even fear the intensity of these deeper layers.
I remember one of the sheripiari telling me, “We don’t sing all the esho for them. They wouldn’t understand. They might even get sick from the words.” I understood that to mean that some songs, especially those used for protection or rebalancing power, carry energetic resonance that must be received within a relational and spiritual framework. Without that, they can be overwhelming or misinterpreted.
In that sense, yes—many ceremonies offered to Westerners are fragments of something much deeper: a living spiritual ecology shaped by interdependence, danger, reverence, and silence. In the effort to satisfy foreign expectations, what is often lost is the forest’s authority. And with it, the slow and uncomfortable, but transformative, work of connection.
7. You highlight a misrepresentation in the plant medicine space- the myth of uniform ayahuasca. One crucial point, often overlooked in Western narratives, is that ayahuasca is not a standardized formula. Its composition varies significantly depending on the region, the intentions behind the ceremony, and the plant allies used, whose practices differ from the more commercialized versions seen today.
I have heard of P. viridis now being grown in Hawaii. Besides the composition of the ayahuasca brew itself, does the composition of Psychotria viridis (the DMT-containing plant in ayahuasca) vary depending on where it’s grown?
Yes, both chemically and spiritually. Psychotria viridis, known as chacruna, does vary in its DMT content depending on where it is grown. Environmental factors such as soil composition, altitude, rainfall, temperature, and even the time of harvest influence its alkaloid profile. A plant cultivated in Hawaii may appear chemically similar to one grown in the Peruvian Amazon, but its potency and energetic profile will likely differ.
However, in traditional Amazonian contexts, chemical composition is only part of the picture, often the least important part. Among the Asháninka people, chacruna is not simply considered “the DMT plant.” It is a conscious being, an oni, whose strength and purpose depend not only on where it grows but also on how it is grown, harvested, and spiritually engaged.
Perhaps I forgot to mention earlier that the word rao—commonly used among the Asháninka—does not refer exclusively to ayahuasca. Rao means “medicine,” but not in the biomedical sense. It refers to any plant that carries spiritual presence and healing force. Banisteriopsis caapi, chacruna, toe, chiric sanango, mapacho, etc. all of these can be rao depending on how they are approached. A plant only becomes rao when it is related to humility, through prayer, diet (dieta), song (esho), and stillness.
This is why reducing chacruna to its DMT content is not only inaccurate, it’s a form of epistemic erasure! In the Amazon, a plant’s power is not defined by how much it contains, but by how deeply it is known. A chemically “perfect” plant grown for export, without ceremony or lineage, may be spiritually inert—or worse, dissonant. Meanwhile, a humble, forest-grown leaf, tended with care and ancestral knowledge, may open a portal to profound healing.
So yes, the composition of P. viridis varies depending on where it’s grown. But even more so, it varies depending on how it is grown, how it is honored, and who is in relationship with it. In Indigenous epistemologies, chemistry alone does not make medicine. Relationship does.
I imagine ayahuasca to be like grandma’s secret recipe. Everyone has their own special ingredient, certain flair, and a loving touch. Does making ayahuasca work in a similar way?
This comparison is beautifully accurate. The image of a grandmother preparing something with memory, intuition, resonates deeply with how ayahuasca is made among many Amazonian peoples. In those traditions, rao is not simply cooked. It is called into presence through song, silence, and relationship.
Just like every grandmother has her invisible touch, something that cannot be written down or replicated, each sheripiari (a healer, but also a sorcerer) prepares ayahuasca in a way that reflects their lineage, their vision, and their relationship with the plant spirits. In many Indigenous traditions, both healers and sorcerers are shamans—sometimes they are the same person. Their power lies in navigating both light and shadow, protection and confrontation, communion and defense.
No two brews are the same. The composition depends not only on the physical ingredients, but on the intention, the phase of the moon, the purpose of the ceremony, and the people who will drink. Some sheripiari add specific plant allies to cleanse or protect; others include elements that support dreaming, emotional release, or ancestral connection.
The pot is stirred slowly while esho (sacred songs) are sung—not for entertainment, but to awaken and guide the spirits of the plants. These chants do not simply accompany the process, they shape the energetic structure of the medicine itself.
I often use the word sacred because it is the closest available in English—but I recognize that it is rooted in Catholic and Western theological frameworks. It divides the world into sacred and profane. In many Amazonian cosmovisions, there is no such binary: everything is alive, infused with spirit, and demands care. The forest is not sacred because it is separate—it is sacred because it is intimately connected.
The first time I witnessed a preparation, I remember the deep stillness, the breathing fire, the rhythmic song, and the quiet respect that filled the space. It was a ritual. It was a conversation with something vastly older than us.
So yes, ayahuasca is like a sacred recipe—but more than that, it is a living relationship. Its essence cannot be industrialized. What gives it life is not only what is in the pot, but how, why, and by whom it is prepared. And that loving touch you mentioned? In the forest, that touch is called intention. And intention, when aligned, becomes the bridge between matter and meaning.
Also I have heard there are 2 or 3 different types of ayahuasca (black, red, and white?). Is this true and if so, can you please explain the differences?
Yes, that is true. Though it comes from a traditional knowledge system that doesn’t rely on rigid categories. Among many Amazonian peoples, especially in Peru and Brazil, Banisteriopsis caapi (the vine at the heart of ayahuasca) is recognized in several varieties. These are commonly distinguished by the color of the bark, texture of the vine, and the energetic or spiritual qualities observed over generations by sheripiari.
Some of the most referenced types include:
Black ayahuasca (ayahuasca negra): Deep, grounding, and often intense. It’s traditionally used in ceremonies that require strong protection, spiritual cleansing, or confrontation with darker, hidden dimensions of experience.
Red ayahuasca (ayahuasca roja): Regarded as emotionally potent and heart-centered. It may be used in ceremonies that support the release of grief, emotional healing, or ancestral memory.
White ayahuasca (ayahuasca blanca): Considered gentler and more luminous. It is often used with beginners or in rituals that aim to provide mental clarity, spiritual alignment, and subtle visionary states.
But these terms: black, red, white, are not universal across the Amazon. They are part of localized oral traditions, and their meanings may shift between regions or healing lineages. What’s called “white” in one territory might be classified differently in another.
More importantly, these distinctions are not just about physical traits—they reflect a felt experience, a kind of spiritual communion between the healer and the vine. A sheripiari does not choose the vine just for its appearance or strength, but based on an intuitive attunement cultivated through dieta, dreams, and years of respectful engagement with the forest.
Unfortunately, in many Western-facing retreat centers or commercial settings, this level of nuance is often lost. Ayahuasca is frequently reduced to a standardized preparation—one recipe, one dosage, one goal—designed to meet the expectations of foreign participants. The energetic diversity of the vine, its voice, and the specific intent of a ceremony are sacrificed in favor of predictability and convenience.
In traditional settings, the vine is not a product. It is a teacher. Its character is not fixed, but it reveals itself through time and mutual trust. And its power lies not only in its chemistry, but in the dialogue it enters with the healer, the forest, and the ceremonial space.
8. Living between the Amazon and the Balkans, you’ve had to find ways to translate traditional knowledge into environments where both entheogens and Indigenous voices are marginalized.
The pairing of the Amazon and of Serbia/the Balkans has to be one of the most atypical travel marriages I’ve ever heard of. More often than not, the unusual, random design of life grants unique benefits. What is the most intriguing piece of knowledge or wisdom that you’ve learned from your journey, living between 2 worlds that appear to have nothing in common?
At first glance, the Amazon and the Balkans seem like an unlikely pair: one a living jungle pulsing with plant spirits and ancestral cosmologies, the other a region often seen through the lens of political unrest, concrete, and post-war fragmentation. But that surface contrast hides something deeper.
I was raised between Belgrade’s urban density—its heavy concrete, historical layers, and inherited trauma, and the deep green expanse of the Amazon, where spirit is not metaphor but reality. And yet, the more I walked between these worlds, the more I began to feel their underground resonance.
Serbia is not only concrete of course, it is a land of rivers, forests, sacred mountains, and pre-Christian memory. Before Orthodox saints and socialist statues, there were oaks worshipped as ancestors, water spirits honored in silence, and herbal knowledge passed down through grandmothers who spoke to plants without needing permission from science. That part of our cultural memory, what some call pagan, others staroslovenski duh, has been colonized, repressed, overwritten by empire, war, and ideology. Just like Indigenous knowledge systems in the Amazon.
The most intriguing insight I’ve learned is this: both the Amazon and the Balkans carry wounds of rupture: spiritual, historical, political, but also deep reservoirs of resistance and remembrance. In both places, what has survived is what was carried in the body, in dreams, in lullabies and prayers, in quiet acts of refusal.
In the Amazon, I was taught that rao listens to intention, and that trauma is a spiritual imbalance. In the Balkans, I learned that trauma is embedded in the architecture, in the absences, in the pauses between generations who survived war, genocide, dictatorship. There is a shared grammar between unspoken pain and unrecognized wisdom.
So perhaps the greatest teaching is this: the rainforest and the Balkans are both territories of memory. One sings in vines, the other grieves in stone. But healing begins when we learn to listen—not just across cultures, but beneath them. To listen with the body, with the ancestors, and with the earth itself.
Because before the bombs and the missions, before the borders and the concrete, there were songs. And they are still there, just waiting to be remembered, not translated.
Prof. Dr. Maja T. Izquierdo
is a distinguished university professor, landscape architect, psychologist, and transdisciplinary researcher who bridges the realms of Indigenous Amazonian wisdom and Western academic inquiry. Born in Belgrade and shaped by her ancestral roots in both the Balkans and the Peruvian Amazon, she brings a rare and powerful perspective to the study of consciousness, healing environments, and spiritual ecology.
Holding a PhD in Architecture, her work extends across landscape and neuroarchitecture, transpersonal psychology, and intercultural dialogue, grounded in a profound respect for both scientific rigor and ancestral knowledge. She has taught at multiple institutions in Europe and South America and remains a tireless advocate for the ethical engagement with traditional medicine and the protection of Indigenous cultural heritage.
📍 Belgrade, Serbia
