This article explored entheogen tourism in Ecuador, and its impact on the traditional practice of shamanism among the Kichwa population in the Ecuadorian lowlands. The emic perception of a loss of ‘‘quality control’’ in shamanism, felt by some of the more ‘‘traditionalist’’ Kichwa shamans, is connected with the tourist- generated demand for ‘‘exotic’’ adventure and cultural alterity manifested as opportunities to partake in ayahuasca shamanism. As this demand focuses on the practical and experiential aspects of shamanism as a service, an important aspect of shamanic legitimacy, rooted in an esoteric experience of training for many years, loses its significance. As a result, the emergence of shamanism as a lucrative profession within the tourism industry challenges the Kichwa traditional categorization of shamans and creates (for ‘‘traditionalists’’) a category of shamans lacking intracultural credentials, but successful in marketing themselves as shamans crossculturally. This does not imply a static history of an immutable shamanism: recognizing that shamanism was always performative, and always mediated by engagement with external cultural forms, is crucial to a non-reductionist understanding of contemporary tensions around shamanic practice. In some ways, using shamanic practice to fulfil economic ambitions today is not dissimilar from using shamanic practice to fulfil political ambitions in the colonial context described by Conklin and Ramos. But while the ‘‘tradition’’ under discussion is not an objective historical fact, it is nevertheless a narrative that holds great significance to many Kichwa, whether they are shamans or not. This ‘‘tradition’’ is an important cultural category because it contextualizes the current tensions around shamanism in a long history of articulating cultural meaning and regimes of value from a marginalized sociopolitical position, and negotiates the costs and benefits of becoming ‘‘modern Kichwa’’ at each new historical juncture of ‘‘modernity’’ from missionization to ecotourism. Finally, while this article is largely structured around the life history of Jorge, who in many ways would consider himself a ‘‘traditionalist,’’ it was not my intention to seek out ‘‘traditionalists’’ in my fieldwork, as is hopefully evidenced by the fact that the two shamans mentioned in this article (Jorge and Reynaldo) are examples of a ‘‘traditionalist’’ and a ‘‘new shaman’’Fand both were important research informants. Furthermore, both perspectives show that even the notions of ‘‘traditionalist’’ and ‘‘new’’ shamans are epistemically murky, even while rich in ethnographic insights about things other than shamanism. Jorge does not identify as a shaman, partly because he finds contemporary shamanic practices tarnished by tourism, yet he performs shamanic duties and rituals; ironically, it is this discrepancy between formal rank and practice that chafes traditionalists about ‘‘new shamans.’’ And while Reynaldo is a proponent of tourist-oriented shamanism, his self-reportage about his training differs from the perspectives of self-identified ‘‘traditionalists’’ like Jorge (Reynaldo’s wife Maria, whom I also interviewed, would not comment at length on his training, but confirmed that Reynaldo’s grandfather was a shamanFwhich was uncontested even by those taking issue with Reynaldo’s legitimacy). Although this particular article is built around Jorge’s life history, I never considered information from either shaman ‘‘privileged’’ or factually superior. And although I report Jorge’s concern with Reynaldo’s shamanic practices, it is not used as an illustration of ‘‘true’’ shamanism supplanted by ‘‘debased’’ shamanism. The ethnographic material that provides context to these life histories was gathered from interviews with a spectrum of shamans, from vehement ‘‘traditionalists’’ to unapologetically entrepreneurial brand new practitioners, who only began performing limpiadas once tourists started arriving.