Best Sustainable Travel Guide | Macizo Colombiano, echoes of Ancestry
Green panoramas and sighs. The Macizo Colombiano sings in verse –written with the ink of the earth and the sweat of its people. A mournful yet passionate symphony, cautious yet brave, it speaks of the past, the struggle, and a rebirth. Everything springs from Mother Earth, from ancestors who now seem to awaken, vibrant in the souls of elders who beg their grandchildren to protect their language, the nature that gives them strength—and to shout it to the world. Tourism is seen as the new El Dorado, but this time, the rules will be set by them –not as in the colonial conquests.
Beneath skies that carry centuries of memory, the Macizo Colombiano rises like a damp poem. Its verses, revived, are etched in stone and roar through the mountains. Eternal guardians recount stories of guerrillas and contraband, of death and fear. But today, the song that rises is not one of armed struggle, but of the hearts of its people—an echo written with the ink of the earth and the sweat of their hands.
The land, with scars that burn like embers at dusk, resurfaces through a heady symphony—cautious in its notes of tragedy, brave in its hopeful rebirth. Each river is a spring of biodiversity, each breeze a whisper of ancestors awakened in today’s Indigenous elders, who ask their grandchildren not to forget their languages or their mythological stories. Their voices, like prayers in the thickets of time, capture me –a pilgrim lost among tales and drumbeats, a witness to awakenings that resound like the echo of a battle that never ceased: the battle to heal.
Tourism, that new El Dorado not gleaming with fever but with hope, appears as the path that promises redemption. It will not be iron that defines their fate, but the weathered hands of those who have chosen to see the gold of this land in its history, its nature, its souls. They –the sons and grandsons of the Macizo– rise now as the masters of their own destiny, speaking to the world with a voice of sovereignty. Poets who have engraved its soul into the currents of its rivers and the dust of its trails.
The Macizo Colombiano does not forget –but neither does it stop. Resilient, it sings in solid verse, its story woven with tears and laughter. And I, lost among the hills, believe I hear the symphony of its dead– and the hope of its living. “Shout it to the world!” – they ask me.
Neiva: The Heart of the Magdalena
Neiva carries stories –whispers from the Magdalena River that caress my soul. Founded and refounded amid Indigenous resistance and Spanish persistence, it breathes like an unfinished tail. On the Malecón, I encounter the imposing statues of Emiro Garzón –sculptures that echo nature itself. The enraged Madre Naturaleza, el Duende, and Mamur, who hides in a cave, appear as warning figures, a reminder of our fragile relationship with the environment.
But one figure rises with a different kind of strength: La Caqueteña. This Indigenous woman, with her defiant gaze, represents ancestral resistance. As the story goes, she ordered the killing of a settler who tried to conquer Neiva —an act that resounds like a cry for autonomy and the defence of the land.
“The Magdalena is more than water,”– I hear someone say –”it’s the soul that unites us.” The river flows between ospreys. Their song guides us to Fortalecillas, a joyful, hard-working village. Amid laughter and the sweet aroma of bizcochos de Achira, the tradition of the roasters feels like a daily prayer. “Our hands tell stories,” one of them tells me, his gaze full of love for his craft.
“The Magdalena is more than water,”– I hear someone saying –”it’s the soul that unites us.”
Villavieja and the Tatacoa: Beneath a Canopy of Stars
Upon arriving in Villavieja, time comes to a halt. There, quietly, Honorio Vanega steps into my scene like the finest storyteller from my childhood tales. He sings songs filled with nostalgia and shares fables and legends of the village—stories that, “are not just legends, because they very well might have happened.” Honorio doesn’t merely tell stories; he weaves them with threads of memory and hope, leaving in the air an echo of magic that follows me through a landscape where ecosystems merge in astonishing ways.
The Tatacoa tropical desert forest reveals itself as a unique place—a testimony to life’s cycles and the resilience of nature. It is not a desert, but an ecosystem where life fights to persist in the cracks of the earth. Night falls, and under that infinite sky, Javier Rúa, astronomer from Astro Sur, guides me through a cosmos that feels as ancient as the earth itself. “The stars here tell stories you won’t hear anywhere else,” whispers the passionate astronomer. Lying beneath the proud gazes of Jupiter and Saturn, surrounded by telescopes of all shapes, my soul is spellbound. There is an indescribable energy in this place.
Beneath the mantle of an immense sky and broken paths of reddish sand, I arrive at a refuge in the middle of nowhere. The Bethel Bioluxury Tatacoa Hotel seems to float between the stars and the silence. The rooms, built to blend into the landscape, offer an intimate connection to the vastness of the place. At night, the neighing of horses, the cries of lizards, the whispering wind… How fragile the human being is, and how powerful fear becomes when one cannot control the surroundings! The door remains ajar. I entrust myself to nature. Is she not, after all, the only one who sets the rules here?
The arid landscape of the Tatacoa is a reminder of what once was and what still is. I come to understand that this land holds not only secrets of the past, but also promises for the future.
At night, the neighing of horses, the cries of lizards, the whispering wind… How fragile the human being is, and how powerful fear becomes when one cannot control the surroundings!
San Agustín: Where the Stones Speak
San Agustín, cradle of mystery and magic, welcomes me with a warm embrace. Hernán Daza, a passionate guide, accompanies me through the Archaeological Park, where volcanic stone statues seem to observe us from another time. “These are not just sculptures,” he says, “they are gateways to the dreams of our ancestors.” The ancient necropolis holds a connection to the divine, with archaeological pieces dating back as far as the fourth millennium BCE.
At Tierra Activa, I meet Gilema, a farmer who has turned her land into a paradise of collaboration and knowledge. “The earth heals,” she tells me, holding a bouquet of pennyroyal. “Here we grow more than plants; we grow hope.” Her daughter, María Paula, proudly shows me the edible flowers and fruits growing in their garden. “To plant is to touch life,” she says, caressing the soil with her hands. Gilema has dedicated her life to reviving ancestral crops and edible blossoms, creating a space for well-being and collaboration among women. Their gardens host 136 different foods, from beans to arracachas, used to prepare dishes such as luna endulzada.
At Casa de Tarzán, chef Dali Valdes explains the revitalising power of seeds and how she prepares her ancestral recipes—pure foods, boundless energy, a deep connection to the land. After it, I am revived by a tasting of organic coffee at Montesevilla Coffee, a cooperative of women coffee growers. I’m heartened to hear that 32% of coffee growers are now women. “Historically, only men were allowed to be part of the system.” –they say. Tired, I enjoy a magnificent view of the Magdalena River canyon from the terrace of Hotel Masaya—a paradise for all the senses.
Hernán Daza, a passionate guide, accompanies me through the Archaeological Park, where volcanic stone statues seem to observe us from another time. “These are not just sculptures,” he says, “they are gateways to the dreams of our ancestors.” The ancient necropolis holds a connection to the divine, with archaeological pieces dating back as far as the fourth millennium BCE.
Mocoa: The Heartbeat of the Jungle
In Mocoa, the green of the Andean-Amazonian jungle wraps around me like a mantle. We dine at Restaurante Amazónico, run by a young chef, Mauricio Velasco, who is reclaiming the fruits of the Amazon and transforming them into unforgettable umami-rich dishes. I adore the simplicity, the direct dialogue between my palate and the essence of the land. The smoke of the pirarucú, the crunch of a hormiga culona, the wild sweetness of mojojoy… The Amazon flows through me via his gastronomic narrative.
At dawn, I journey to Puerto Limón, a small municipality I imagine as a powerful tourist destination in the future, but which, for now, I’m glad to experience in its purest form. Nearby, the La Honda and El Paujil waterfalls roar with the force of life itself. The Indigenous tribe Shasta Paraiso awaits us in their village of thatched and wooden huts, where Mama Carolina, from the Pastos ethnic, invites us to a purification ritual in their waters. I feel it: the harmonisation ceremony maintains my harmony with myself, with others, and with Mother Earth, generating my inner peace and the practice of values. “The water here doesn’t just flow,” she says, “it renews.”
In Puerto Limón, African, Indigenous, and colonial lineages blend in harmony… At the Ñamby Wayra Indigenous women’s place, I dance and sing to their ancestors. The old women are an invaluable source of information about the history of the natural environment, the climate, plants, and animals. As night falls, my heart breaks reading that in Latin America and the Caribbean, one in five Indigenous peoples has already lost its native language: 44 now speak Spanish, and 55 speak Portuguese.
In the Maloca of Dantayaco, the Taita shares his ancestral wisdom in a talking circle. His harmonisation invites me to reconnect with my spirit. His voice, slow and deep, seems to rise straight from the earth. “Listen to the forest,” he tells me, “it has the answers you seek.” This act, as ancient as the forest itself, fills me with a peace that transcends time. The next morning, I wake without pain—that legs pain that sometimes wakes me. To believe or not to believe. Something must have happened last night in that ceremony. Something must have happened…
“As night falls, my heart breaks reading that in Latin America and the Caribbean, one in five Indigenous peoples has already lost its native language: 44 now speak Spanish, and 55 speak Portuguese.”
Puerto Asís: Stories of Resilience
Our final destination is Finca La Fortuna, a poem of transformation. The family that owns the farm left behind coca cultivation to embrace sustainable agriculture. “Every fruit we grow is an act of rebellion,” they tell me. “We couldn’t go on living in fear.” Along their path of Amazonian fruits, light filters through like a memory of hope. They still have no water, no electricity. The mother help me preparing fiambres in a wood-fired kitchen using ancestral ingredients. The ice for the juice made from their own fruits arrives at the perfect moment —melting in my mouth like the very essence of this region and its people.
With each step, the Macizo Colombiano whispers its resilience. Here, communities have turned the echo of conflict into a song of hope. My heart is full of stories. The pockets once heavy with stress and pain —are empty now. Stones and stars must remain where they belong.
This was not a journey; it was a dialogue with the land and its guardians—an experience that has, without question, changed me. “The only risk here,” an old woman whispers as we part, “is that you might fall in love.”
At Finca La Fortuna, a poem of transformation, the family that owns the farm left behind coca cultivation to embrace sustainable agriculture. “Every fruit we grow is an act of rebellion,” they say. “We couldn’t go on living in fear.”
