[title] Gratitude to Providencia
[author] Carolina Soto Vargas
[year] 2025

[category] essay
[keywords] conservation futures, island ecologies, mourning landscapes

In 2020, we found ourselves surrounded by uncertainty as a virus spread across the globe. Months passed, and during the pandemic, Hurricane Iota arrived—a Category 5 hurricane that struck in November, devastating the San Andrés, Providencia, and Santa Catalina archipelago in the Colombian Caribbean. Providencia was the hardest-hit island, experiencing catastrophic destruction. It suffered a complete loss of its infrastructure, with 90% of its tropical dry forest severely affected, along with significant damage to other ecosystems and biodiversity. Remarkably, no lives were lost directly due to the hurricane—an almost unbelievable fact when stated aloud. However, the impact on the people and their families was immeasurable in countless ways.

I was on vacation when I received a call from my boss. The Government needed a team to travel to the island and assess the hurricane’s impact on biodiversity and ecosystems. I dropped everything I was doing, and we began gathering as much valuable information as possible before the journey. We refined our methodologies and worked remotely with local researchers based in San Andrés. Thus, we formed a team of 29 researchers from six institutions to embark on the first post-hurricane expedition, named “Black Crab.” Within our team, my role was to examine the hurricane’s impact on livelihoods and explore place-based relationships. Our goal was to propose socio-environmental and cultural recommendations to support the island’s restoration in the face of profound vulnerability.

We didn’t know what to expect when we arrived. 

The thought that kept crossing my mind was: How to navigate a landscape filled with mourning? 

As we set foot on the island, the scene was devastating. Fallen trees, vanished beaches, and green landscapes had turned to shades of brown. People were sleeping in makeshift plastic tents, and the silence was haunting. The shock intensified as memories flooded back—memories of that lush, vibrant island dear to me, where I had first learned how to dive.

We had work to do. We needed to contribute to the island’s recovery, but it wouldn’t be easy. My guiding principle became:

“Work with deep respect in the face of such vulnerability, and remember the delicate balance between listening, speaking, and remaining silent.”

What surprised me most was the openness of the people—their willingness to share their experiences and their desire to contribute to a biological expedition during such a painful time. As the days passed, I traveled through the island, not only in terms of space, but also in time. I listened to narratives filled with deep connections to nature and stories of loss, grief, and hope. I learned about what once was and what had been lost. I discovered the profound value of listening—not just to words but also to silences and whispers.

I remember how Orly taught me about the island’s plants and their uses for health and well-being. Mr. Brown shared stories about agrobiodiversity, and I heard about the white Jamaican flower for the first time. Big Boy told me captivating stories about the island and its forests. Ms. Delia shared her wisdom while gazing intently at an almond tree that reminded her of better times. Mr. Cardo recounted tales of coconuts that once existed but are now gone. And Raya, with her incredible sense of humor, joked that it wasn’t Iota that had passed through the island, but rather “El Idiota” (The Idiot).

Every day was different. Every moment was special and overwhelming. And amid so much sorrow, there was something incredibly beautiful: generosity. How is it possible to give so much, to be so generous, in a time of such hardship and pain? This is why I long for a generous conservation where we listen more and speak less. A just conservation that acknowledges differences, embraces them and includes them. A conservation that respects, values, and integrates diverse ways of knowing.

I dream of a conservation that leads us to new spaces of thought—where we move not in straight lines but in spirals (inspired by the “churo cósmico” of the Pastos Indigenous peoples)—expanding outward from within, with each cosmic spiral formed by learning and unlearning. And above all, I dream of grateful conservation—one that honors the past in order to build the present.

Thank you, Providencia!