For decades, Chile’s Mapuche communities, who form the most populous Indigenous communities in Chile and Argentina, have been wary of outsiders, battling threats to their ancestral land among other issues. But today, some communities are changing tack, seeing tourism as a way to tell their story and share their ways with a new crop of visitors.
“We take good care of the trees because we see them like a mother that gives us food,” Matilde Domihual tells me inside her homely restaurant, Ruka Mawida, as she prepares piñónes. These seeds of the araucania tree (known in English as the monkey puzzle tree) are the length of my thumb, covered with a pinky-brown shell, and have a waxy texture and smoky, nutty flavor, similar to chestnuts.
Matilde boils and peels the piñónes, before grinding them to make chuchoca, a coarse flour used in sopapillas (a delicious, savory deep-fried dough), catuto (an unleavened bread), polenta-like mash, and even sweet desserts. The piñón is the sacred seed of the Mapuche, the most populous Indigenous group in Chile, Argentina, and wider South America. Most of Chile’s 1.8 million Mapuche live in scattered farming settlements in the central Araucanía and Bíobío regions, their ancestral territory pitted by lakes and rivers, and sandwiched between the Andes Mountains and the icy Pacific waters. But few foreign visitors to Chile are aware of their existence.
History has defined the Mapuche as fierce warriors. They resisted both Inca and Spanish invasions before being occupied by the Chilean state in the 1860s in a military campaign that left over 100,000 dead and countless others displaced from their ancestral lands. Over the past two decades, a growing movement for self-governance has seen relationships with the Chilean government further deteriorate. Despite a largely pacifist population, isolated clashes between Mapuche activists and with the military have seen the Mapuche branded as “terrorists—it’s little wonder that many communities have been wary of outsiders. But things are changing. Some now see tourism as a way to share their stories and reclaim their narrative.
It’s autumn in the southern hemisphere, and I’m helping with the piñoneo, the harvesting of the piñónes as they tumble from the araucaria—these evergreen conifers grow in the foothills of the Andes and are native to this stretch of Chile, a day’s drive—350 miles (563 kilometers)—south of the Chilean capital, Santiago. Some araucaria are over 1,600 years old—a drop in the ocean given their genetic lineage stretches back 150 million years.
Later, I visit the first-ever Mapuche vineyard, Viña Wuampuhue, further north. Producing just 1,000 bottles annually, it’s run by spritely septuagenarian Isolina Huenula.
They look ancient too; armored bark scaly like the dinosaurs that once walked among them, and spiky-leafed branches that loom 164 feet high (50 meters), dripping with horsehair lichens. It’s easy to understand why the Mapuche approach these trees with reverence.
Known as pehuén in their native Mapudungun language, these trees symbolize Mapuche spiritual identity in this region. The name Pehuenche—used to describe Mapuche communities in the Andes—means “people of the araucaria”, while Mapuche signifies “people of the earth”. It’s understandable, therefore, that Mapuche philosophy centers around the protection of Ñuke Mapu (Mother Earth), from whom these trees, and the natural world as a whole, are considered a gift.
But, as wildfires, logging, and land clearance have shrunk the araucaria forests to the point of being endangered, the piñoneo has become smaller—and what it means to be a Pehuenche is threatened.
From her restaurant in the tiny Mapuche community of Icalma on the border with Argentina, Matilde is determined to show visitors why these trees are so significant. “It hurts our souls when the araucaria burn,” she tells me quietly. “It’s a terrible loss for us.”
Due west and right on the coast lies one of the pioneers of Mapuche tourism. On the lush rolling hills and patchwork agricultural lands that fringe brackish Lago Budi live the Lafkenche, the “people of the sea”. In the early 2000s, the lakeside farming community of Llaguepulli recognized the opportunities posed by tourism, as national Chilean tourism began to grow. Since then, over 20 families have built modern cabins and homely restaurants to host their new guests. Visitors are sent to each using a rota system, which fairly distributes earnings among the community.
Guests can select from a range of experiences to learn more about the Mapuche way of life. I try weaving on a traditional witral (loom), but find myself better at palín. Similar to hockey, this game has been played by the Mapuche for thousands of years. Armed with a tree branch curved like an ice hockey stick, I quickly learn how to score a goal: Whack the animal-skin ball across the back line of the 82-foot-long pitch (25 meters). By the end, I’m delighted to escape with all teeth intact.
An hour’s drive north as the road wriggles around the lake and emerges just eight miles from the ocean, I find the first-ever Mapuche vineyard, Viña Wuampuhue. Producing just 1,000 bottles annually and tucked within a crease between native forest and emerald hills nourished by some of the country’s highest annual rainfall, it’s run by spritely septuagenarian Isolina Huenulao; her half-hectare of pinot noir vines produces a brut rosé, which won gold at the Catad’Or World Wine Awards in 2021.
Cultivating grapes in a cold, rainy climate like the Araucanía was previously considered unthinkable. The vineyard sprang from a government response to climate change: As temperatures in Chile’s typical wine-growing regions soar higher each year, investing in vineyards further south is a strategic contingency. Unfortunately, the approaches used in traditional vineyards didn’t align with the Mapuche worldview. “When the engineer came here, he told me I had to cut all the grass,” she says, aghast. “I said, ‘No, I’m Mapuche, I’m not cutting that grass.’”
I’m given a crash course in Mapuche spirituality and quickly find myself hanging onto his every word. One of the most fascinating aspects is how Mapuche spiritual healers—machis—use herbal medicines and dreams to help them identify and cure ailments.
Instead, she uses sheep to weed her semi-organic vineyard, an approach she believes makes her wine so successful. “The grapes absorb everything—the vegetation, everything we have here, it absorbs it,” she says, pointing down the sloping hill of her vineyard to the stream used for irrigation and the native hazelnut and maqui (berry) trees that flank it.
Her dream is to take her wine to France. “I’d like to show that a Mapuche woman from this humble area can reach that far.” She pauses. “And, well, I’ve achieved everything I’ve set my mind to,” she says with a laugh.
Back in Llaguepulli, I meet Pablo Calfuqueo. A softly spoken man in his 50s, he runs the village’s tourism body, Lofpulli Tourismo. We sit together in the ruka, a circular building constructed using Chilean bamboo and thatched with native grasses. Until the last few decades, all Mapuche families lived in a ruka; now, tourism has become a reason to preserve them.
Without windows, it’s dark inside, and Pablo stokes an open fire, its tendrils of smoke snaking through the air and catching at my eyes. He’s unaffected; he lived in a ruka until the age of 12 and now spends much of his day in the way of his ancestors—seated around the fire.
I’m given a crash course in Mapuche spirituality and quickly find myself hanging onto his every word. One of the most fascinating aspects is how Mapuche spiritual healers—machis—use herbal medicines and dreams to help them identify and cure ailments. In recognition of these ancestral techniques and their significance to the Mapuche culture, a nearby hospital now employs both machis and Western medicine doctors to treat patients.
This belief in the healing properties of the spiritual world stems from the Mapuche cosmovision. At the heart of everything is the spirit Ngenechén, who created life and exists inside every part of the natural world. “They can be in the mountains, in the oceans, in the earth, in a forest,” Pablo says, explaining why Mapuche philosophy is so intrinsically tied to respecting the natural world. “If you want to cut down a tree, you ask for permission—and promise that it will be used for a good purpose.”
I ask Pablo how he feels about climate change, which is predominantly being driven by societies antithetical to those of the Mapuche. He thinks carefully before speaking. “For us, climate change is the tendency of the Western man moving further and further away from how he should coexist with nature or the ecosystem,” he says.
It’s a refrain I’ve heard throughout my time in the community, yet one always delivered without judgment. Instead, it’s one I’ve learned to believe holds hope.
The connection I felt when I stood among the araucaria remains, and I’m left with the belief that if we can remind ourselves of our role as guardians of Ñuke Mapu, we might be able to reverse the damage we’ve done. We just need to channel the resolve and belief of the Mapuche.
The writer’s trip was supported by SERNATUR, the Chilean tourism board. Visits to Llaguepulli, Viña Wuampuhue and other Mapuche communities around Lago Budi can be arranged through Lofpulli Tourismo.
Icalma Lodge offers accommodation in rustic cabins and can organize cultural activities within the community of Icalma.
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Steph Dyson is the founder of the travel website WorldlyAdventurer.com and is an award-winning travel journalist based in Manchester, UK. She spent nearly six years living across South America, in destinations including Santiago, Chile; Sucre, Bolivia; Cusco, Peru and Medellin, Colombia before arriving back in the UK, which she now calls home.
