In the mountains of western Colombia, lush rainforests and remote highlands hide a spectacular diversity of birds — some species found nowhere else on Earth. For decades, violence kept most people away: fighting among the government, left‑wing guerrillas, right‑wing paramilitaries and narco‑traffickers made many areas too dangerous to visit. Paradoxically, that isolation preserved habitat.
Since 2016, when the government signed a peace agreement with the FARC, it has become safer to travel into those places. Untouched forests, pristine rivers and extraordinary birdlife have helped spawn a growing ecotourism industry. Birdwatchers — “birders” — now travel from around the world to Colombia, bringing dollars and new livelihoods to formerly dangerous regions.
Tatamá National Park, on the western slope of the Andes, is one such destination: a vast, rain‑soaked forest where hummingbirds, tanagers, wrens and many other species fill the canopy and understory. The region is one of the wettest places on Earth, and its colors and calls are vivid and abundant: velvet‑purple coronets and gold‑ringed tanagers; the cinnamon flycatcher and blue‑gray tanager; the elusive Chami Antpitta that darts through dense undergrowth and frustrates photographers and twitchers alike.
Diego Calderón Franco is one of Colombia’s most famous bird guides. He knows the birds by sight and by voice, mimicking calls to coax hidden species into view. He also embodies the country’s painful history: in 2004, as a graduate student, he and two colleagues were seized by the FARC while on an expedition. Diego was held in remote mountains for 88 days. He drew birds on scraps of cigarette paper and wrote notes to keep his wits about him; he says birds helped him stay sane. After his release — and after his father raised money for his ransom — Diego later started a business leading birding tours.
Diego and other guides are now training former combatants to work as forest guides. Tens of thousands of FARC fighters gave up their weapons after the peace deal, but needed ways to support themselves. Birding and conservation have become one such pathway. Diego remembers going into the forest with ex‑guerrillas and forgetting past roles: “They weren’t thinking, ‘This is the guy we kidnapped.’ Birds connect you so much.” Marcos Guevara, once a FARC member, now works as a photographer; with training from guides like Diego he documents nesting green‑and‑black fruiteaters and other forest life.
Local entrepreneurs have also adapted. At the entrance to Tatamá, the Montezuma Rainforest Eco Lodge — run by Michelle Tapasco and her family — caters to birders. Michelle moved to the area in the 1990s to escape violence elsewhere; she endured FARC presence locally and says her partner was kidnapped and killed in 2008. Despite skepticism from neighbors when she started a lodge, she stuck with the project. The lodge grows much of its own food and keeps feeders and flowers for the many hummingbirds that visit: Colombia hosts more than 160 species of hummingbirds, the only group of birds that can hover and fly backward. The tiny birds beat their wings up to about 80 times per second.
Ecotourism is not only about seeing birds. It is an economic engine. Serious birders often keep “life lists” — tallies of species seen worldwide — and many will pay to visit remote sites where endemic species can be found. American birders like Gary George and Joseph Brooks travel to Colombia to chase species and check rare birds off their lists; some travelers are competitive, tattooing feathers and species names on their skin to commemorate sightings. For local communities, the influx of birders provides jobs: guiding, lodging, food, transport and photography. For families like Michelle’s, the business has changed futures: her daughters are pursuing biology, forestry and conservation careers, and two daughters married birders.
But Colombia’s peace is fragile. The country suffered a brutal decades‑long conflict: more than 450,000 people were killed and roughly 50,000 kidnapped during fighting among armed groups and government forces. Some factions refused to disarm after the 2016 accord, and attacks and explosions still occur. Nonetheless, many ex‑combatants have embraced conservation jobs, and new tourists are arriving in greater numbers than before.
Conservationists warn that, despite pockets like Tatamá where birds thrive, the global outlook is worrying: about 60% of bird species worldwide are in decline, victims of logging, agricultural expansion, urban development and other forms of habitat loss. Colombia’s intact forests and isolated mountain ranges, which were once no‑go zones because of conflict, now offer a last refuge for many species. The challenge is to protect those habitats as the country opens up.
Some species remain extremely local and hard to find. The gold‑ringed tanager, for instance, lives only in a portion of the Andes and is a prime draw for birders; seeing it is a hard‑won prize. The Chami Antpitta remains elusive and often frustrates visitors despite repeat trips. Yet the thrill of spotting such birds, even for a fleeting moment, creates powerful emotional experiences for birders: they describe it as a jewel or a prize that makes everything else fall away.
At the same time, Colombia’s natural resources are woven into a social fabric altered by the peace process. Where illegal groups once made land dangerous, tourism and conservation now create incentives to preserve habitat. Former guerrillas and local communities who once depended on illicit economies are finding new income in guiding, hospitality and photography. For some — like Michelle, Diego and Marcos — birds literally helped save lives and livelihoods.
As visitors arrive, the work continues: protecting forests through land purchases, expanding conservation areas and training new conservationists. Colombia’s biodiversity remains unparalleled — the country hosts more species of birds than any other nation — and maintaining that richness will depend on balancing tourism, economic development and the long work of peace.