Reductions

I come, on my father’s side, from Huilliche stock that still maintains a reduced presence in the strongholds of Quilacahuín, a village located thirty-five kilometers to the northwest of the city of Osorno.

In that vast territory, my ancient aboriginal ancestors surmounted their work and their days with occasional community festivals. Then—and still today—one of the most celebrated dates was June 24: We Tripantu, New Year’s Day for the Mapuche communities of La Frontera; Day of San Juan for my Huilliche countrymen of the coastal mountain range near Osorno.

My relatives (who were named José, Albino, Luis; there were very few Juans among them) were no strangers to the prodigality of this saint’s day. After foretelling the future in the mirrors and in the potatoes, and after whipping cherry and apple trees to oblige them to give fruit in abundance, they would uncover barrels of chicha and slaughter a pig by the light of the campfires.

The most industrious of my elders, Enrique Aguas Huenún, would have his wife accompany him to the mysterious cellar, from which he would return with bottles and a basket full of apples. “It’s because he had his little burials in there,” my grandmother tells me. “The ancient ones were people of great foresight,” she remembers.

And so, my great-uncle preserved vegetables, liquors, and fruits in deep holes padded with wood chips, sawdust, and straw. This is how he was able to offer his visitors products that most people no longer had access to in the winter.

But the wheel of time, the suns and moons revolving around the living and the dead, has cast a shadow over this ancient wisdom. My last trip to the fields of Quilacahuín was ten years ago, as I recall. In the meantime, Carlos Huaiquipán, Abraham Huaiquipán, and Albino Aguas have fallen into their respective eternal graves. The poor women, with their hearts of boqui¹ and enduring memory, still remain on earth: Matilde Huenún and Zulea and Catalina Huaiquipán. So do the rivers: the Rahue, the Pilmaiquén, el Bueno, seeking each other out over valleys and declines, sparkling with their fish who leap over the pools of the sunset.

Trumao.
Cofalmo.
Cantiamo.
Trinidad.

I remember out loud the names
of the places where my grandparents lived:
Molino de Oro on the way to Hueyusca,
el Salto de las Tres Tazas,
where the rock unleashes
a thin, silent estuary.
I must go, I tell myself, I must smell
the grasses in the ports of the Rahue.
I’ll watch the carp jumping in the Bueno
and I’ll listen, at midnight, to the music
from the ship of light flying toward the sea.
I’ll take flowers to their tombs.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow,
when the sun comes up.

^{1. Boqui: Hydrangea serratifolia, a native Chilean plant↩}

To learn more about Mapuche writing, read Liliana Ancalao’s conversation with Elisa Taber: “Living Words: An Introduction to Five Contemporary Mapuche Texts.”

I come, on my father’s side, from Huilliche stock that still maintains a reduced presence in the strongholds of Quilacahuín, a village located thirty-five kilometers to the northwest of the city of Osorno.

In that vast territory, my ancient aboriginal ancestors surmounted their work and their days with occasional community festivals. Then—and still today—one of the most celebrated dates was June 24: We Tripantu, New Year’s Day for the Mapuche communities of La Frontera; Day of San Juan for my Huilliche countrymen of the coastal mountain range near Osorno.

My relatives (who were named José, Albino, Luis; there were very few Juans among them) were no strangers to the prodigality of this saint’s day. After foretelling the future in the mirrors and in the potatoes, and after whipping cherry and apple trees to oblige them to give fruit in abundance, they would uncover barrels of chicha and slaughter a pig by the light of the campfires.

The most industrious of my elders, Enrique Aguas Huenún, would have his wife accompany him to the mysterious cellar, from which he would return with bottles and a basket full of apples. “It’s because he had his little burials in there,” my grandmother tells me. “The ancient ones were people of great foresight,” she remembers.

And so, my great-uncle preserved vegetables, liquors, and fruits in deep holes padded with wood chips, sawdust, and straw. This is how he was able to offer his visitors products that most people no longer had access to in the winter.

But the wheel of time, the suns and moons revolving around the living and the dead, has cast a shadow over this ancient wisdom. My last trip to the fields of Quilacahuín was ten years ago, as I recall. In the meantime, Carlos Huaiquipán, Abraham Huaiquipán, and Albino Aguas have fallen into their respective eternal graves. The poor women, with their hearts of boqui¹ and enduring memory, still remain on earth: Matilde Huenún and Zulea and Catalina Huaiquipán. So do the rivers: the Rahue, the Pilmaiquén, el Bueno, seeking each other out over valleys and declines, sparkling with their fish who leap over the pools of the sunset.

Trumao.
Cofalmo.
Cantiamo.
Trinidad.

I remember out loud the names
of the places where my grandparents lived:
Molino de Oro on the way to Hueyusca,
el Salto de las Tres Tazas,
where the rock unleashes
a thin, silent estuary.
I must go, I tell myself, I must smell
the grasses in the ports of the Rahue.
I’ll watch the carp jumping in the Bueno
and I’ll listen, at midnight, to the music
from the ship of light flying toward the sea.
I’ll take flowers to their tombs.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow,
when the sun comes up.

^{1. Boqui: Hydrangea serratifolia, a native Chilean plant↩}

To learn more about Mapuche writing, read Liliana Ancalao’s conversation with Elisa Taber: “Living Words: An Introduction to Five Contemporary Mapuche Texts.”

Reducciones

Provengo, por sangre paterna, de un tronco huilliche que aún mantiene un mermado asentamiento en los reductos de Quilacahuín, localidad ubicada a 35 kilómetros al noroeste de la ciudad de Osorno.

En aquel vasto territorio, mi antigua parentela aborigen remontaba sus trabajos y sus días con ocasionales fiestas comunitarias. Entonces -como todavía ocurre hoy- una de las fechas más celebradas era el 24 de junio: We Tripantu, año nuevo para las comunidades mapuche de La Frontera; día de San Juan para mis paisanos huilliche de la Cordillera de la Costa osornina.

Mis parientes (que se llamaban José, Albino, Luis; pocos Juanes se contaban entre ellos) no eran ajenos a la prodigalidad de este onomástico. Después de adivinar el porvenir en los espejos y en las papas, y de azotar cerezos y manzanos para obligarlos a dar abundancia de frutos, destapaban barriles de chicha y degollaban un cerdo a la luz de las fogatas.

El más laborioso de mis mayores, Enrique Aguas Huenún, se hacía acompañar por su mujer hasta una misteriosa bodega de la que volvía con botellas y una cesta repleta de manzanas. “Era que el tenía sus entierritos por ahí”, cuenta mi abuela. “Los antiguos eran gente muy pensada”, recuerda.

Así pues, mi tío abuelo conservaba hortalizas, licores y frutos en profundos hoyos acolchonados con viruta, aserrín y paja. De este modo ofrecía a los visitantes productos que en invierno ya no estaban al alcance del común.

Pero la rueda de los tiempos, los soles y las lunas girando sobre vivos y difuntos, ha echado sombra a esas viejas sabidurías. Mi último viaje, recuerdo, a los campos de Quilacahuín fue hace diez años. En el intertanto han ido cayendo a sus respectivas fosas de eternidad, Carlos Huaiquipán, Abraham Huaiquipán y Albino Aguas. Quedan en la tierra, corazón de boqui y memoria resistente, las pobrísimas mujeres: Matilde Huenún y Zulea y Catalina Huaiquipán. Y los ríos: el Rahue, el Pilmaiquén, el Bueno, buscándose por valles y declives, destellando con los peces que brincan los remansos del atardecer.

Trumao.
Cofalmo.
Cantiamo.
Trinidad.

Recuerdo en voz alta los nombres
de los sitios que habitaron mis abuelos:
el Molino de Oro camino a Hueyusca,
el Salto de las Tres Tazas
donde la piedra hace florecer
un delgado estero silencioso.
He de ir, me digo, he de oler
las hierbas del los puertos del Rahue.
Veré saltar las carpas en el río Bueno
y escucharé, a medianoche, la música
del barco de luz que vuela hacia el mar.
Llevaré flores a las tumbas de esos hombres.
Mañana, me digo, mañana
cuando amanezca en el sol.