Barichara Colombia: Earth Regeneration
Since I was in elementary school, I have felt the call to protect the rainforest.
I remember walking into an exhibit at my school, where plastic animals peeked out from artificial vines, a small attempt to recreate the lushness of a world I had never seen but somehow already understood. Growing up in the wild forests of the Midwest, I felt an unspoken kinship with those distant jungles. Their fate was entwined with my own. Every day, from third to fifth grade, I pressed my lunch money into the Save the Rainforest donation box, believing that my small offering could help shield that vast green world from destruction.
But that little girl grew up watching the forests around her disappear. Roads carved through the trees. Farmland stretched where dense woodlands once stood. And in books and magazines, she read how the Amazon was being torn down— not for survival, but for profit.
And now, here I am.
Standing on this land, my hands in the soil, I see the scars left behind. Barren clay where once a jungle breathed. Wounds in the earth, deep and raw. But unlike the helplessness I once felt as a child, I am not just watching. I am witnessing something else entirely.
I see the insects returning. I hear the rustle of creatures creeping back to what had become a wasteland. I feel the pulse of the land shifting beneath careful, loving hands. The rainforest and its surrounding terrain is not just vanishing—it is also being reborn.
Juan, from the Aquelalto Syntropic Agroforestry Project, told me a story I will never forget. For 21 months, his partner , Claira, has woke up before the sun, their hands tirelessly coaxing life back into the soil. And all this time, from the canopy above, a Colombian Chachalaca watched them work.
One morning, something changed.
From the understory, the Chachalaca or Guacharacas (as it’s known here) emerged—not alone, but with her chicks. She walked right up to Claira, her dark eyes fixed in recognition. It was as if she were saying, “Because of you, I have a safe place to raise my young.”
Monday, I sat on a woven grass mat in Joe and Penny’s backyard- the last tiny slice of jungle in this part of Barichara encircling us. Joe, Felipe, and I spoke of water restoration, of youth education programs, of a new hostel for regenerative learning—visions of what could be with a little effort.
And then, from the shadows, an Guati came bounding forward.
These creatures, so often hidden, so often wary of human presence, do not show themselves unless they feel safe. It paused, watching us, its small nose twitching, as if to say hello.
And today—oh, today.
I was pulling invasive plants from the Totumo landscape, where dry forest clings to the mountainside, when my favorite bird appeared: the Momotus.
With its long, elegant tail and turquoise crown, it swooped down and landed right in front of my face. Its deep, knowing eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, we simply existed together.
I sang softly, the words slipping from my lips:
"Put your roots down, put your feet on the ground, you can hear what she says if you listen…"
The Momotus swayed its tail from side to side, keeping rhythm with me, until I forgot the next line.
Then, tilting its head, it let out a sound I had never heard before—a soft, purring trill, meant just for me.
It was an offering. A thank you. A moment of recognition from the land itself.
The little girl who once emptied her pockets into a donation box is no longer standing outside the rainforest, wishing she could protect it.
She is here. And the jungle is singing back.
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