Caño Cristales with the Tíos: A Journey That Began Almost Twenty Years Earlier
Some journeys begin long before you pack a suitcase or buy a plane ticket. My journey to Caño Cristales began when I was still almost a child.
At school, I was lucky enough to have Andrés Hurtado García as a teacher. Those of us who studied with him probably remember his hikes, his stories, and those long slide presentations in which he showed us a Colombia that, to many of us, seemed almost unreachable. Andrés did not give these presentations only to students. For years, he also brought together parents, hikers, and nature lovers to show images from his expeditions around the country. There are records, for example, of the “ecological slide shows” he was still presenting at Colegio Champagnat in the mid-1990s.
Among páramos, rainforests, rivers, and mountains, one place appeared again and again and stayed especially vivid in my memory: a small river with crystal-clear water that looked as though it had been painted red, pink, green, and yellow — Caño Cristales.
Back then, getting there was far from easy.
I grew up in Bogotá in the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s, and I remember that period with a strange sense of confinement. We lived in an incredibly diverse country, yet huge parts of it seemed to lie beyond an invisible border. The armed conflict made travel through many regions difficult, or simply unthinkable for an ordinary family.
The Sierra de La Macarena was one of those regions. From the late 1970s onward, the coca boom and the growing strength of the FARC had turned the area into one of the places where the guerrilla had its strongest presence. During the 1990s, the advance of paramilitary groups added another layer to the conflict, and between 1998 and 2002 La Macarena even formed part of the so-called demilitarized zone during peace negotiations between the Colombian government and the FARC.
And yet, while we stayed in the cities, people like Andrés continued to venture out.
They walked. They explored. They entered regions that the rest of the country mainly heard about on the news. They spoke with farmers, crossed rivers, photographed mountains, and then came back to show us that behind the conflict, there was another Colombia.
It was not only inspiring. It was also a form of education. Passing mathematics or Spanish was almost as important as taking part in the four Saturday hikes organized each year for every grade. Despite the skepticism of some parents — my father included — we went out and explored the countryside around Bogotá.
Andrés was already traveling through La Macarena in those years. In a chronicle published in 1994, he described one of his expeditions through the serranía and mentioned almost in passing something that sounded extraordinary to me at the time: he had passed through Caño Cristales and bathed “in the five colors of the Caño.”
I looked at those images and thought that one day I absolutely had to see it for myself.
That “one day” took almost twenty years to arrive.
Caño Cristales with the Tíos
When I was finally able to organize the trip, the original plan was quite simple: I wanted to take my father. Then we told the rest of the family about the idea. One of my aunts wanted to come. Then another. And finally, a friend of one of them joined as well.
Suddenly, I found myself acting as a kind of expedition leader for four travelers over the age of sixty, heading toward one of those places I had imagined for a large part of my life.
I have to admit, I was a little worried. I wondered whether the whole thing might have been slightly irresponsible.
I did not know exactly how demanding the trip would be. There was heat, humidity, hiking, boat rides, rough tracks, and jungle. My companions were far more urban than adventurous, and I did not want my dream trip to turn into a survival test for them.
But by then, we were committed.
The flight from Bogotá to La Macarena takes less than an hour, yet geographically the distance feels far greater.
From the airplane window, the Andes begin to disappear and gradually give way to an enormous green carpet crossed by rivers winding through the vegetation. I still remember those brown curves from above, cutting their way through the forest.
What makes the Sierra de La Macarena especially interesting is that although it lies very close to the Andes, geologically it belongs to a completely different history.
One of the westernmost extensions of the ancient Guiana Shield rises here, while influences from the Amazon, the Orinoquía, and the Andean region all converge around the mountains.
This location largely explains the extraordinary mix of tropical rainforest, flooded forests, shrublands, and savannas found in the park. The scientific importance of the area was recognized early: the La Macarena Biological Reserve was created in 1948, and the present-day Sierra de La Macarena National Natural Park was officially established in 1989.
It also explains something we would come to understand better over the following days: the landscapes here can change incredibly quickly.
One moment you are navigating between walls of forest, and not long afterward you are walking through open savanna.
La Macarena
Landing in La Macarena meant entering a different rhythm.
At the time, it was a small and simple town with basic shops, motorcycles, horses, and accommodations that were all fairly similar. The rooms had what you needed: a bed, a private bathroom, and, if you were lucky, air conditioning to take the edge off the heat.
I suspect that not too much has changed in that respect.
The food I remember also had little to do with the exotic image of the Amazon that one might carry in one’s head.
It was much more rural and shaped by settler traditions, with a strong influence from the Llanos: meat, river fish such as cachama, yuca, plantains, and simple, tasty, generous meals.
The recent history of La Macarena has been closely tied to those settler communities that arrived in the region throughout the 20th century.
But human presence here goes back much further.
In the basins of the Duda and Guayabero rivers, there are pictographs and petroglyphs that bear witness to Indigenous peoples who inhabited this territory long before modern settlement.
And in the middle of that small town stood a large military base near the airport, immediately reminding you where you were and what had happened there only a few years earlier.
I particularly remember meeting a young soldier during one of our outings.
He was fully equipped, wearing a uniform, helmet, and carrying a rifle. Yet beside him was something unexpected: a small military boat he had carefully built and carved out of wood.
In that image, the reality of war met the hands of a talented young man patiently creating something beautiful.
At that moment, I thought — as I have so many times while traveling through Colombia — about how much talent we have spent over decades fighting one another, and what that same talent might have built under different circumstances.
Finally, Caño Cristales
To reach Caño Cristales, we first traveled along the Guayabero River.
The boat moved across coffee-colored water while dense vegetation lined both banks. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes a farmhouse appeared beside the river.
Then came a stretch overland, and finally we began to walk.
For a long time, Caño Cristales was described simply as “the river of five colors.”
But once you are actually there, you quickly realize that the description does not quite do it justice.
The water is extraordinarily clear and flows over a bed of ancient rock that has been shaped over thousands of years into channels, waterfalls, and perfectly rounded pools.
Growing on those rocks is the aquatic plant traditionally known as Macarenia, now identified by Colombia’s National Parks authority as Rhyncholacis clavigera. It is responsible for much of the river’s red and pink coloring.
Depending on the water level, the light, and the time of year, the colors change.
Sometimes the river appears intensely red. In other places, green, yellow, black, and blue mix in, created by the plants, the rocks, reflections from the sky, and the extraordinary clarity of the water itself.
The best part was that in certain authorized areas, you could actually enter this kaleidoscope.
And then something even stranger happened: you stopped merely looking at the landscape and suddenly found yourself inside it.
I remember sitting in one of those natural pools, surrounded by rock, while tiny fish swam nearby and reddish plants moved beneath the current.
It felt like sitting inside a huge, natural, multicolored whirlpool.
Of course, precisely because the ecosystem is so delicate, strict rules apply.
Before entering certain areas, visitors may not use sunscreen, insect repellent, creams, or other chemical products, because these can damage the aquatic plants.
Fortunately, my worries about our little family expedition turned out to have been somewhat exaggerated.
We walked, sweated, climbed over rocks, and got wet, but the journey could be done perfectly well at a relaxed pace.
You did not need to be a hardened explorer.
My father, my aunts, and their friend were enjoying themselves.
Another Life Along the River
Caño Cristales was obviously the main reason for the trip, but some of the memories that have stayed with me most strongly happened elsewhere.
I remember drifting slowly along the Guayabero and watching the riverbanks.
I remember the farmhouses. Gardens lovingly cared for in the middle of the humid landscape. Chickens. Small plots of land. And a cup of tinto kindly offered to us during one of our stops.
I have always been fascinated by finding this rural life in places that, from the cities, we tend to imagine simply as “jungle.”
In the most remote corners of Colombia, people have built homes, routines, and communities under conditions that can seem extremely difficult to those of us who grew up in cities.
Sometimes there is a severe lack of infrastructure or basic services, and at the same time an almost overwhelming abundance of water, fruit, plants, animals, and landscape.
And then there are those small family moments that stay in your memory more vividly than any geological explanation.
Like my father playing with a monkey.
That moment sums up the spirit of the trip quite well.
My initial concern about taking a group of people over sixty into the jungle eventually turned into a collection of funny moments that we still remember today.
We also discovered another side of the landscape, because La Macarena is by no means only jungle.
There are broad open savannas, enormous skies, and horizons where the light seems to stretch endlessly.
You can also experience the famous sunrise or sunset that plays such an important role in the culture of the Llanos.
At moments like those, it is difficult not to think about Colombia’s extraordinary geographical fortune — and at the same time, its contradictions.
Once Again, the Slides Became Landscape
Almost twenty years had passed since those presentations at school, and throughout that time Caño Cristales had existed for me mainly as a collection of images: Andrés’ slides, photographs in books and magazines, and later, the pictures that began circulating online.
And now I was actually there.
In my mind, I was replacing the slides with real landscapes and giving my own voice to the stories I had listened to for so long.
At that moment, I understood a little better the fascination our teacher had tried to share with us.
It was not simply about showing us beautiful places.
He was teaching us that there was an enormous country beyond the small piece of Colombia we knew.
I had finally reached one of those places that, for much of my childhood, I thought I would probably never see for myself — and I was there together with my father and my aunts.
Caño Cristales was no longer simply a destination I had dreamed of visiting.
It had become part of our family story.
La Macarena, Some Years Later
Several years have passed since that trip, and La Macarena has changed as well.
The destination has developed a more varied and comfortable tourism offering while, at least in principle, maintaining the idea of regulated ecotourism.
Today, Colombia’s National Parks authority requires visitors to check availability and carrying capacity before entering certain areas and continues to insist that only authorized routes and sites be used.
That caution exists for a reason: uncontrolled tourism can quickly put especially fragile ecosystems at risk.
There are also accommodation options today that hardly existed when we made our trip.
A good example is La Manigua Lodge, located beside the Guayabero River, about thirty minutes by boat from La Macarena.
It combines more comfortable rooms immersed in the forest with private excursions, wildlife observation, and experiences connected to local communities.
It is a very different way of approaching the destination today: more comfortable and sophisticated, but with the intention of keeping nature in the leading role.
Caño Cristales would hardly be able to withstand a model based on large-scale resorts and mass tourism.
Its special appeal depends precisely on remaining a fragile, regulated, and extraordinary ecosystem.
That is why I am glad that tourism in La Macarena has, to a large extent, developed in this direction.
And of course, it makes me want to return.
I would probably find a different La Macarena today from the one preserved in my photographs — with its simple streets, basic hotels, and long days navigating the Guayabero.
But I hope that when I approach the river again one day, the water will still be crystal clear.
That the little fish will still be swimming between the rocks.
And that those red plants will still be moving beneath the current — just as they did in the slides I saw when I was a child.
Would you like to discover Caño Cristales for yourself? Get in touch with us and we’ll be happy to help you plan your journey to this unique corner of Colombia.
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