Indigenous knowledge and science revive Chile's choro mussel beds

The Huellelhue River estuary in southern Chile's Los Lagos region is home to something the Mapuche Huilliche people have known for generations: the choro mussel is not just food, but a living connection to ancestral waters.

For the three Indigenous communities along its shores — Caleta Huellelhue, Lonko Milef, and Nirehue — the choro mussel (Choromytilus chorus) represents both survival and belonging. "Huellelhue means 'place for swimming' in Mapudungun," explains Eduardo Vargas, president of the Nirehue community. "It's a spiritual geography where the Mapuche Huilliche people have, for generations, woven their connection with the water, forest and life itself."

But decades of intensive harvesting had nearly erased that connection. Divers and outsiders stripped the natural mussel beds until the population collapsed. In 2018, the three communities took action, calling on Chile's Undersecretariat of Fisheries and Aquaculture (SUBPESCA) to step in. A year later, authorities established the first harvesting ban.

The results have been tangible. The natural beds have grown substantially since the ban took hold — a recovery that caught the attention of marine scientists looking for a different way to do conservation.

Where Indigenous knowledge meets data

Marine biologist Alejandra Cortés saw an opportunity. Instead of running the usual top-down monitoring program, she and her team began working directly with community members who had lived alongside these mussels their entire lives. Vargas describes what that knowledge looks like: "The Mapuche Huilliche people have an intimate relationship with the choro mussel. They know its life cycle, its habitat preferences, and the best ways to harvest it sustainably."

Cortés puts it plainly: "The Indigenous monitors provide us with crucial information about changes they observe on the ground. Together, we can paint a much more comprehensive picture of the situation." This wasn't theoretical. Community observations helped identify illegal harvesting as a major ongoing threat — something that might have been missed in standard surveys.

The collaboration has shifted the entire frame of the conservation effort. It's no longer scientists studying a problem that communities are expected to solve. It's communities as the primary stewards, with science as a tool they control.

Vargas speaks to what that means: "This is not just about protecting the choro mussel. It's about revitalizing our connection to the land and water, and passing on our cultural heritage to future generations. With science and traditional knowledge working hand in hand, we can achieve that."

The choro mussel beds are growing. But what's really recovering is something older — the idea that the people who've lived with a place longest are the ones best positioned to protect it.