Coastal Chile

Patricio Colivoro stands barefoot on the gray sands of Guafo Island, an uninhabited, densely green haven off the southern coast of Chile. He’s been sent here by his chief, or lonko, and seems grateful to be swaddled in a woolen poncho as the crisp Patagonian day breaks. Suddenly, thousands of sooty shearwaters burst free from the temperate rain forest above and stream out over the steel-blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

As this avian freeway soars overhead, Colivoro blows a bleating welcome cry through a curved ox horn. It’s a tradition among the Mapuche Huilliche (an Indigenous group in southern Chile) to offer respect. It’s also a way, he says, of asking permission to visit Guafo, following the eight-hour boat journey from his home near the small coastal city of Quellón on the much larger island of Chiloé.

In the hours that follow, humpback whales arc in and out of waters off the coast of a popular fishing cove. Onshore lie the bones of an old whaling station where many Huilliche once worked. Magellanic penguins sport amid the melodic waves, and a pod of Peale’s dolphins race just beyond. It’s a vision of what the Huilliche-led coalition Colivoro represents is here to protect. As werken, or spokesperson, for his community, it’s clear he is deeply committed to sharing the messages they want to convey.

One such message? The urgency of defending Guafo Island and its waters. Under an initiative called Wafo Wapi, 10 Indigenous communities from Quellón, with the support of 11 local fishing unions, have petitioned the Chilean government to administer Guafo as an ECMPO (Espacio Costero Marino para Pueblos Originarios). This is a legally defined approach that officially puts the administration of coastal areas under Indigenous management based on recognition of “customary use,” or how they’ve traditionally used the area’s resources.

The ECMPO designation would allow the communities to manage the sustainable extraction of resources and the continued health of this still-pristine environment, which lies at the entrance to the Corcovado Gulf—one of the most important feeding grounds for cetaceans, especially endangered blue whales, in the southeastern Pacific. If successful, Wafo Wapi could offer an example for other Indigenous communities to follow—and provide a new model for how to balance human needs with coastal conservation around the world.

The idea to protect Guafo was born in 2016 following a massive red tide that blanketed seas across the greater Chiloé Archipelago. Local fishers blamed the algal bloom on the farmed salmon industry and the controversial dumping of thousands of tons of decomposing fish off the coast. Guafo was also under threat from coal mining and development; in 2020 the land was advertised for sale in the New York Times for $20 million.

Colivoro says he hopes fishers like Vidal can keep coming back without fear that there will be ever fewer resources. “We need to learn to find an equilibrium in the economic activities, to not take and take again, so that you leave a bit for the next time around,” he says.

After visiting with the men on the Cobra, Colivoro and Elvis head ashore. It’s low tide, and the idea is to comb the coastal algae meadows to gather supplies for an evening meal back on the boat.

The men clamber around searching for locos (Chilean abalones) and lapas (limpets), prying the sea snails from exposed rocks with whittled sticks. They toss only the biggest ones into their hand-woven baskets, Colivoro says, “so there will be more for the next person.”

Up above is a primeval forest of towering coigües, bushy myrtles, and spindling olivillo trees—all bent sideways in the incessant breeze. At least 81 species of marine birds, including southern giant petrels and three types of cormorants, make their homes here, as do the scores of sooty shearwaters now filing in after a long day at sea.

Back on solid ground, in a rustic community center in Yaldad, near Quellón, Elvis Chiguay and Colivoro gather with Lonko Cristian Chiguay around a hole in the ground heaped with heated stones and covered with the giant leaves of nalca, a plant similar to rhubarb. The elders are preparing a curanto, one of the oldest continually practiced food traditions in the Americas, where meats, potatoes, and shellfish are all cooked in the earth.

The topic of their lunch meeting is protecting Guafo Island, an idea that was born in this very community center seven years ago. “This ECMPO was born because Western culture so often looks at nature as a source of wealth to be sold,” Lonko Chiguay says, holding up a razor clam. “For us, the sea is a place of respect. We are always doing ceremonies to give thanks to the different ngen [nature spirits] who live there.”

From his spot at the center of the long, shared table, the lonko points to a mural on the wall. It shows how the sea is wrapped up in the spirituality of the Huilliche, whose cosmovision includes a powerful serpent (Caicai) that controls the ocean’s equilibrium, as well as anthropomorphic spirits like a ruling sea lion (Millalobo) and fish-herding mermaid (La Sirena). These mythological creatures help rationalize the whims of the ocean—something that’s become harder to do in the face of pronounced changes such as the massive salmon and mussel farms now anchored in Yaldad’s harbor.

That’s why the community here, and the nine communities they have partnered with, hope their work might be seen as a model for other Indigenous groups defending both cultural and natural heritage.

“It’s an example of how First Nations can continue working to protect nature and do our part,” says Lonko Chiguay, “because a healthy sea means healthy people.”