Liquiñe: Adaptation and Resistance
A small town reconsiders its relationship to its lands and waters.
January 3rd, 2025
Simone Endress
Essay
The Road
The Plant
In the River
Fabian's House
Isla Grande
Just out of sight but alongside the road, Río Liquiñe snakes through the valley, its waters cool and clear. Teenagers gather on the banks to fish.
On the surface, Liquiñe seems timeless. But locals speak of rapid change. The paved road, for example, is a luxury they’ve had for only five years. Before that, the path was gravel, and trips to the nearest town were long and grueling. Not long ago, that gravel road was the only link to the outside world besides the town’s call center. The Internet is another novelty.
Now, those days feel like a distant memory. Tourists descend every summer, lured by the town’s famous natural hot springs. Screen-printed signs along the road vie for their attention, promising relaxation and escape. Some newcomers are settling here for good. In recent years, 300 households have joined the local registry of water claims, their arrival adding strain to an already fragile system.
But the river, indispensable to the community, follows the same course it has for centuries. Liquiñe does its best to adapt to a moment of transition.
The Road
An introduction to Liquiñe
Sounds from Liquiñe's plaza
Continue
Liquiñe lies cradled between a volcano and a mountain.
At first glance, the town is a scatter of houses and small businesses strung along a road that winds its way to Argentina. From this road, the view is a patchwork of natural and human life: evergreen forests climb toward jagged cliffs, pastures are cleared for small farms, and greenhouses glint faintly under the sun. In one yard, a few cows graze. In another, laundry flutters on a line. A boy walks home from school beside his grandfather, their pace unhurried. Above them, birds call out, their cries dissolving at the rhythmic clang of a hammer from a backyard construction project.
The town feels organic, as if it grew out of the landscape, like lichen grows on trees. Mario Gonzalez, a native of Liquiñe, described it as a “de facto” town—a place that simply happened. Families moved into the valley, carving homes and farms from the land. They planted roots and began to build community spaces: schoolhouses, a modest plaza, and a church.