I write from a spatial and temporal distance. A distance that separates me from that mysterious place that filled us with fear and dread. A place through which we strolled and roamed under the most arduous circumstances. Immersed, walking through capricious perceptions, we survived among constant vulnerability and insecurity. Fragility was our way of being in that territory. A feeling that whitened our minds to induce a state of alert that sharpened our senses to perceive the smallest details and changes around us.

Our vulnerability to the landscape caused a state of alert that guided and concentrated our walking bodies' attention on the ground. That vertical vision of the territory does not identify the horizon's totality but recognizes the particularity of the details. It is a vision that enables a prominent fixation on the features and qualities of the landscape. It allows knowing if we are walking through a place that is arid or humid, polluted or clean, warm or cold, deserted or inhabited, steep or soft, rough or smooth, fertile or sterile, dark or light, gloomy or illuminated, rural or urban, natural or artificial, green or gray.

The narrative told by the details of the unusual Páramo de Hirva in the municipality of Aquitania, Colombia, introduces a magical realism of transformation and change over time. After all, the soil records the history of that place, a story that is as mysterious and fleeting as the apparently eternal mist surrounding it. It is a dynamic, unpredictable, and lunatic atmosphere; a scorching sunbeam is suddenly dampened by the harsh rain, which, later, gives way to the cold that the obstinate wind brings. Although these are the ordinary conditions of this ecosystem, it is necessary to learn to read between the lines. We are facing the vestiges of a vast swamp, a perpetual rain, a severe cold. What is green one day was gray, hoping that what is gray today will someday be green again. 

– October 2, 2019