Having been trained as an environmental geographer, I was awarded few opportunities to study religion in the ways a scholar of religion typically would. Ethnography was quite new to me. Even today, I’m still trying to understand how my work can effectively bridge the gap between these disciplines.
In the summer of 2024, I was delighted to be able to travel to Peru for a season of fieldwork. I learned so much from those I worked alongside, and grew a vision of my future as a scholar. This post is a short reflection on the role of spiritual tourism and landscape in my fieldwork experience so far, and I hope some of the questions I ask here can be answered through future travel in Peru as I begin my doctoral studies.
Spiritual tourism
Peru is depicted in tourism marketing and other forms of digital media as a highly ‘spiritual’ place—for good reason. There is no doubt that ‘spiritual’ or ‘religious’ meaning is readily produced in day-to-day lives in rural (and urban) Peru. For one, the blending of religious traditions—namely Catholicism and Andean worldviews—are described sometimes as hybrid religion, syncretism, or ‘Folk Catholicism.’ This unique variant of Christianity does not fit neatly into a single denominational category or tradition whatsoever, but it fascinates people everywhere.
Peru profits much from the spiritual tourism industry; whether it’s a spiritual retreat centre, ayahuasca lodge, or pilgrimage following inca (inka) roadways, tourism organizations are scattered all across the landscape from the Andes to the Amazon. Even the name of the most popular destination, the Sacred Valley (where one finds Machu Picchu), oozes spirituality. Every year, hundreds of thousands flock to Peruvian cultural sites founded in religious or spiritual meaning, hoping to experience something special.
I find myself asking some questions with this. For one, where is the line between real, embodied experiences and what tourists are told is authentic and traditional? This raises important questions about the commodification of the sacred. Is it ethical for spiritual practices and experiences to be catered to specific audiences for their consumption? I guess the answer is not all that straightforward. While it was clear to me that tourism provides important economic opportunities for local people, I felt uncomfortable seeing spirituality be performed in the ways it sometimes was, as if it was simply entertainment for the gringos.
What also complicates this line of questioning is that many visitors arrive with sincere intentions. Some are searching for healing, others for a sense of connection, or just to relax in a beautiful setting. These activities might then be shaped by a deeper desire for meaning, authenticity, and encounter. Regardless of what is true here, it was interesting to think about.
Landscape
Landscape and place were another aspect of my fieldwork that left a strong impression on me. I was struck by how closely spiritual meaning and people’s understanding of God were tied to landscape.
Rivers, rain, and mountains all held spiritual meaning. The volcanoes and high mountains in the Andes are known as the apus, powerful spiritual beings or intermediaries between the human and god worlds. In the Amazon, people see that God is in control over annual floods and unpredictable supplies of fish. People in both settings associate quite a lot of meaning, identity, and gratitude towards the Christian God (or Pachamama, mother earth) for blessing them with material things, such as fish, in exchange for their obedience or goodness.
In both the Andes and the Amazon, I also noticed that there was a certain level of reverence and reciprocity associated with the divine and human through these interactions. Reciprocity signaled oneness and unity in the face of other differences that might indicate community division or fragmentation. I later learned that this reciprocity (ayni) extends beyond unity between and among people, but also with the natural world. As people naturally acted to promote unity with one another, unity between the human and god worlds were also upheld and (re)produced.
As a researcher, my fieldwork was fascinating. As a human, my fieldwork changed me. Throughout my time in Peru, I found myself constantly reflecting on my own positionality and on how little I truly knew. Fieldwork has a way of humbling you—and that is something worth embracing. It inspires me to return, open my heart, and learn again.
