Berkley Center

“I haven’t been there in several years. I am tired of their politics, tired of the disagreements.” Silverio pointed towards an open field among the farm plots, the Mapuche ngillatun grounds used to convene the indigenous families in the town of Kurarrehue. Wooden arches, representing each traditional family, stretch across the field, suggesting the strength of the town’s Mapuche roots, the dominant indigenous group in southern Chile. I had the opportunity to spend time working and learning with the family of Silverio, an elderly farmer outside the town. Only a few kilometers outside of the village, I realized the divide between a personal connection to the land and culture, and a communal connection to Mapuche ancestry. People like Silverio face choices and realizations about how they want to express and share their cultural heritage.

Kurarrehue lies about 45 minutes east of Pucón, the adventure sports oasis at the start of Chile’s lakes region. Aspen-style lodges line the streets, and hot springs and ziplines offer plenty of diversion in Pucón’s busy tourist season. Nearby, Chile’s most active volcano challenges the town’s most ambitious outdoor enthusiasts. In recent years, Kurarrehue has attempted to become a strong contrast down the road: a hub for ecotourism and education about the town’s strong Mapuche community. After decades of neglect, abuse, and exploitation, Chile’s Mapuches have become the focus of national efforts to recognize and celebrate Chilean indigenous peoples. Chileans I’ve spoken to around my home in Viña del Mar still consider the Mapuche a more reserved people, a group more inclined to stick amongst themselves. Kurarrehue’s efforts to “open” a Mapuche community to visitors and tourists signal a departure from this characterization.

After spending time with villagers and Silverio outside the village, I noted the difference in how people expressed or reflected on their Mapuche identity. In Kurarrehue (“Altar of stone” in the Mapudungun language), younger generations have constructed a traditional ruka, a type of central meetinghouse dedicated to preserving and strengthening the Mapuche history. Kids play palín, the traditional Mapuche sport similar to field hockey, and join adults for asados or community gatherings. After a few days of playing palín and sharing music and stories with local residents, I found the community’s Mapuche identity lying in the familiarity and cohesiveness of the people. Nothing of it felt exaggerated—the people of Kurarrehue had found ways to celebrate their history by simply sharing with each other.

My conversations with Silverio presented a radical departure from the unity of the central village. While Silverio and Dora, his wife, had relatives and history across Kurarrehue, they preferred to keep to themselves. Silverio taught me a handful of Mapudungun words but lamented the gradual loss of the Mapuche language among his grandsons: “I know about 97 percent of it, but in the schools they’re too embarrassed to learn it.” He connected the self-sufficiency of his farm to the traditional Mapuche appreciation for their bountiful lands, but he prioritized his evangelical Christian faith. In all aspects, Silverio was a full-blooded Mapuche with ancestral roots stretching back generations in the lush valley around Kurarrehue. But he didn’t want to have this identity define him. Silverio was an outsider in this regard, less connected to the politics of local elections or the village’s fight against hydroelectric development on the central Transkura River. He told me that his land and his family were most important, and he assumed the same for all his farming neighbors in the valley.

While most of my study-abroad program continued on to Pucón after a day in Kurarrehue, a small group of us had accepted the offer to stay in the village for a more lasting immersion experience. At one point, one program advisor described it as more “authentic.” The word arises frequently in a town like Kurarrehue, from restaurants offering authentic Mapuche cuisine, to ecotourism presenting a more authentic or genuine exploration of the local surroundings. When I contrasted the community identity with more individualistic people outside the village, I wondered about the importance of coherence among Kurarrehue residents. They decided to share the local customs with visitors in varying ways. They differed in defining the distinctly Mapuche aspects of their daily lives.

On my final day with Silverio and Dora, Ana, a famous local cook and a vocal advocate for the Kurarrehue Mapuches, came to the farmhouse to give us a ride back to the village. They seemed at opposite ends of the spectrum. Ana always spoke Mapudungun with her children and pushed Kurarrehue’s ecotourism and cultural exchanges, while Silverio focused on his land and avoiding most of the town’s push for greater cultural awareness. Once Ana arrived, I realized these contrasts weren’t so concrete. Dora served mudai for all of us, a fermented wheat drink similar to an Andean chicha. While Ana explained the traditional significance of the drink as an offering for the harvest, Silverio commented on recent harvests and the crops behind the drink. They appreciated mudai differently; still they shared it as a gesture of hospitality and gratitude. Such hospitality seemed universal, but the history and significance of the mudai remained distinctly Mapuche.