Welcome back to the deep dive. So today I want
you to just mentally pack your bags. Oh, we are
going on a trip. We are. But and I need to be
really clear about this upfront. Do not pack
your flip flops. Right. Do not pack your sunscreen
for a day at the beach. And definitely don't
expect a pina colada by the pool. No. If you're
packing for today's trip, I mean, you need rubber
boots, ideally the ones that go all the way up
to your knees. Exactly. because we are heading
to the Caribbean coast of Columbia. Now that
usually conjures up images of, you know, white
sand and turquoise water. A standard tropical
vacation. Right. But we are taking a hard left
turn into something much denser and much darker
and frankly just... much more fascinating. We're
heading straight into the swamps. The best kind
of detour. It really is. Specifically, we're
looking at a place with a title that just demands
respect. It's the El Mono Hernandez Cork Forest
Flora and Fauna Sanctuary. It is quite a mouthful
of a name, isn't it? It is, yeah. Sanctuario
de Fauna y Flora El Corchal El Mono Hernandez.
And I am really glad you emphasized the sanctuary
part there. Yeah, it's important because this
isn't a park where you just go to play frisbee
or have a picnic. It's actually a designated
natural monument, which is the distinction that
really stood out to me in the research natural
monument. I mean, it sounds like a statue or
some giant rock formation like a monolith. Yeah,
exactly. But here we are talking about a living,
breathing, wet ecosystem. Yeah. So why that specific
classification? Well, it really comes down to
rarity. So in the conservation world, you have
your national parks, which are usually these
massive areas that protect entire sweeping landscapes.
But a natural monument... And this is under the
IUCN classification. So that's the International
Union for Conservation of Nature. A natural monument
is usually much smaller. It's a category three
protected area, which essentially means, hey,
this specific thing right here, it's totally
unique. It is a landmark. And if we lose this,
we lose a very specific chapter of biological
history. So the mission of this deep dive is
to really figure out what that monument actually
is. Because on the surface, I mean, it just looks
like 38 0 .5 square kilometers of swamp sitting
right on the border of the Sucre and Boulevard
departments. Just a patch of mud and water to
the untrained eye. Right. But hidden inside that
swamp. is this botanical secret that literally
exists nowhere else in the Caribbean region.
That is the real hook here. It's a total biological
anomaly. But actually, before we get to the trees
in the swamp, we have to talk about the name.
Oh, yeah, we do. Because El Mano Hernandez is
just this fascinating entry point into the whole
history of Colombian conservation. OK, let's
definitely unpack this. Because I speak a little
bit of Spanish. You know I ordered a beer in
Mexico once? Very impressive. Thank you. And
I know that mono means monkey. It does, yes.
So naturally when I first saw the name, I thought,
great, we're going to a sanctuary named after
a specific monkey. Right, like a local primate.
Yeah, maybe a golden lion tamarin or some special
howler monkey local to the Caribbean. But then
I dug into the source material, and it turns
out El Modo was a human being. He was very much
a human being. Jorge Ignacio Hernandez Camacho.
OK. And this is actually a great example of cultural
context, because down in Columbia, mono is a
really common nickname. But does it mean you
look like a monkey? No, no, not at all. It's
often used for people who have lighter skin or
lighter hair, so rubio. Ah, I got it. It's just
a term of endearment. OK, so it's kind of like
calling a redhead red or a really tall guy tiny.
Yeah. It's just the nickname that stuck with
him. Exactly. But in this case, that nickname
belonged to an absolute titan. Yeah, the sources
made that very clear. Jorge Ignacio Hernandez
Camacho was born in 1935 and he wasn't just a
casual fan of nature. He was arguably the primary
architect of how Columbia actually protects its
environment. Wow. He was this brilliant naturalist
who helped found the entire national natural
park system of Columbia, which is just a massive
legacy. I mean, we aren't just talking about
a guy who liked bird watching on the weekends.
We are talking about the guy who literally drew
the conservation lines on the map. Precisely.
He spent his entire life cataloging biodiversity
and identifying these critical ecosystems. And
more importantly, fighting for the legal framework
to actually keep them safe. Because you can't
just hope a forest stays untouched. Right. He
understood that you can't just hope nature survives.
You have to legislate it. You have to build legal
walls around it. And the timeline here is actually
pretty poignant because he passed away in 2001.
He did. And this sanctuary was established on
August 5th, 2002. So just barely a year later.
Exactly. Meaning that naming this place El Mono
Hernandez wasn't just some branding exercise
by a committee, it was a memorial. It was the
ultimate tribute, really. Imagine spending your
life building a system to protect the planet
and then right after you're gone, your country
takes this piece of land, a piece of land that
is scientifically irreplaceable, and says, this
is yours. We are putting your name on the map
permanently. It genuinely gives me goosebumps.
It changes the way you look at a map. It's not
just geography anymore, it's biography. That's
a great way to put it. But you mentioned earlier
that this land is scientifically irreplaceable.
So let's get our boots dirty. Let's get into
the mud. What exactly is the cork hell? The cork
hell, yes. This is why we are here. The word
translates to cork forest. Now see, when I hear
cork, I immediately think of wine bottles. Sure.
Most people do. I think of Portugal and those
oak trees where they gently peel the bark off
the trunk. Right. And that is the most common
association. But the cork forest we are talking
about here is completely different. We are not
talking about the cork oak, which is cork -a
-super. We are talking about a totally different
tree called Pterocarpus officinalis. Pterocarpus
officinalis. That sounds almost medical. Well,
the officinalis part often implies a medicinal
history in botany. But the common name you'll
usually hear for it in English is the dragon's
blood tree or bloodwood. Bloodwood. OK, that
is way more metal than cork. Why on earth do
they call it bloodwood? Because if you cut the
buck, it actually bleeds. It bleeds. Yeah, it
exudes this thick, really dark red resin. It
looks incredibly visceral, like the tree is actually
bleeding. That is such a vivid and slightly terrifying
image. So we have this bleeding tree in the swamp.
But the sources highlight that the actual arrangement
of these trees is the real mystery here. They
keep referring to them as pure forests. And this
is the real aha moment for any ecologist listening
because In the tropics, especially in rainforests
or these complex wetlands, monoculture is almost
a dirty word. Because everything is usually so
mixed together. Exactly. Usually you have this
incredible diversity. You might find 10 completely
different species of tree in just a 10 square
meter plot. Nature in the tropics rarely does
the exact same thing twice in a row. Right. Diversity
is basically the defining hallmark of the tropics.
But here, inside the El Mono Hernández sanctuary,
you have these massive homogenous stands. of
just tarocarpus officinalis. Nothing else. Miles
of bloodwood. About 401 hectares of them, to
be exact. It's like walking into this massive
biological cathedral where every single pillar
is identical. Which is huge. I mean, 401 hectares
is roughly 400 football fields of just this one
type of tree. So how does that even happen in
nature? Well, it is all about extreme adaptation.
You have to remember, this area is a swamp. It's
not quite the open sea, and it's not quite a
freshwater river. It is this harsh transition
zone where freshwater from the inland rivers
collides with the salty influence of the Caribbean.
So it's brackish. Highly brackish and fluctuating.
It is a really tough neighborhood for a tree.
Most normal trees would either rot from being
submerged in the water, or they would just die
from the salt content. So the terracarpus is
basically the special forces unit that can survive
those specific conditions. Exactly. They have
evolved these massive winding buttress roots.
Think of them almost like the stabilizing fins
on a rocket. OK. They spread way out to stabilize
the heavy tree and the soft shifting mud. And
they have just evolved to perfectly handle this
specific hydro period. So they naturally crowd
out all the competition because frankly nothing
else can handle the stress of that specific environment
quite like they can. And the source material
says this is the absolutely only place in the
entire Colombian Caribbean where you find these
pure stands. The only one left. There definitely
used to be more of them historically, but through
deforestation and agricultural expansion, they
have basically been wiped out. Wow. Which is
exactly why this got that natural monument status.
It is the last remaining stronghold of the pure
bloodwood cork forest. That image is just incredible
to picture. Floating through a dark swamp surrounded
by these bleeding trees with massive rocket fin
roots. It feels prehistoric. It really does.
But we can't fully talk about the swamp without
talking about the other half of the vegetation
because despite the fame of the cork, the mangroves
are actually a massive part of this. The mangroves
are really the unsung heroes here. They actually
cover about half of the total area of the sanctuary,
mostly in the western and northern parts. I feel
like mangroves generally get a bad rap. People
just think of them as these smelly, buggy, impenetrable
thickets. Yeah. But the notes here list four
very specific types found in the sanctuary. We've
got red, black, white, and buttonwood. Is there
a specific reason for that variety, or is it
just random seeds floating around? Oh, it is
definitely not random. It is highly, highly organized.
You should think of it almost like a well -planned
city. The mangroves strictly respect these natural
zoning laws based entirely on the water depth
and the salinity. OK, walk me through these zones.
Who gets the prime waterfront property? The red
mangrove is your absolute front line. That's
rhizophorum angle. Are those ones with the crazy
roots above the water? Yes, the ones you see
on postcards with those big arching prop roots
that look like giant spider legs dropping straight
down into the water. Right. They live right there
in the active tidal zone. They physically break
the incoming waves and their roots trap the sediment
floating in the water. They are literally building
new land out into the ocean. Okay, so the red
mangroves are the infantry building the beachhead.
Who is sitting right behind them? Behind them,
usually on slightly more stable ground but still
very wet, you have the black mangrove, Abbot
Scenia Germanens, and these guys are amazing
because they have what we call pneumatophores.
Pneumatophores. That is a fantastic scrabble
word. It is. It essentially translates to breathing
roots. Because the mud they live in is so thick
and completely lacks oxygen, the black mangrove
has to send up these little snorkel roots. Snorkel
roots? Yeah, they stick straight up out of the
mud looking exactly like thousands of little
pencils sticking up. They literally snorkel for
air above the suffocating mud. That is wild.
It's like the tree is holding its breath underwater
and sticking a straw up to the surface. Precisely.
And then as you move further back into slightly
drier, slightly less salty territory, you get
the white mangrove and the buttonwood. They prefer
to have drier feet, so to speak. That makes perfect
sense. But the larger point here is that this
specific diversity, having all four types working
together, tells us that the ecosystem is incredibly
robust. Under the administration of CNAP, the
National Park System, they are protecting a system
that filters the river water before it hits the
ocean. It tracks massive amounts of carbon. It
protects the coastline from storm surges. So
it is essentially a giant biological sponge.
A sponge and a highly active nursery. Which brings
us perfectly to the actual residence of the sanctuary,
because you can't have a house this big and this
complex without tenants moving in. And looking
at the notes, the tenant list here is genuinely
impressive. We've got 153 different species of
birds. 153, yes. I mean, I have a pretty nice
bird feeder in my backyard and I get maybe three
types of sparrows and one very aggressive squirrel.
Why is this specific 38 square kilometer patch
of swamp attracting 153 different bird species?
It boils down to one simple thing, calories.
So it's just a giant buffet. It is an all -you
-can -eat buffet that never ever closes. The
sheer combination of the mangroves constantly
dropping leaves the warm swamp water breaking
those leaves down rapidly. And that constant
mixing of fresh and salt water creates an absolute
explosion of plankton algae and small crustaceans.
The water is basically soup at that point. It
is a nutrient -dense soup. So the small fish
eat the soup. The bigger fish eat the small fish.
And the birds, the herons, the egrets, the kingfishers...
They capitalize on all of that. Whether they
are wading in the shallows or diving down from
the canopy, the food density here is just off
the charts. But it's not just birds, right? There's
a specific mammal here that I think captures
the imagination more than anything else we've
talked about, the West Indian manatee. Ah, yes,
the gentle giant of the swamp. See, I always
associate manatees with Florida, you know, hanging
out with power plants in the winter. I didn't
realize they were such a key feature of these
deep Colombian swamps. They are completely critical
to the ecosystem and unfortunately they are highly
endangered. The overall population in the Caribbean
is severely fragmented so finding a pristine
sanctuary like El Mono Hernandez where they are
actively protected is vital for their survival.
But why are they here specifically? Is it also
because of the soup? For them it's the salad.
Manatees are strict herbivores. They are basically
aquatic cows. They need massive, massive amounts
of aquatic plants, floating grasses, water hyacinths,
just to sustain their sheer bulk. And the swamp
just naturally provides the lawn for them to
mow. Exactly. The complex marshes within the
sanctuary provide perfect grazing grounds. But
here is the fascinating part. It's a deeply symbiotic
relationship. Oh, so. By constantly grazing the
manatees, actively keep the waterways open. They
physically prevent the fast growing vegetation
from choking out the flow of water. If you lose
the manatee population, the actual architecture
of the swamp changes. The channels would clog
right up. Oh, wow. So they aren't just living
there. They are the gardeners. They are the heavy
machinery of the swamp's maintenance crew. I
love that. Yeah. But if the manatee is the gentle
gardener, there is another resident we need to
talk about that is significantly less gentle.
The Jaguar. The undisputed king of the sanctuary?
This detail really blew my mind because I know
Jaguars are flexible predators. I know their
range extends from Mexico all the way down to
Argentina, but I always picture them in dry deciduous
forests or deep dense canopy jungles. I do not
picture a massive cat swimming through a dense
mangrove swamp. That is actually a very common
misconception about big cats, specifically jaguars.
They absolutely love the water. They're incredibly
powerful swimmers, and they will actively hunt
in the water. Wait, they hunt in the swamp water?
What are they hunting? Oh, absolutely. They hunt
caiman. They hunt crocodiles. Well, caimans.
Yes. The jaguar actually has the strongest bite
force of all the big cats relative to its size.
They can effortlessly crack a turtle shell or
bite straight through a caiman skull. That completely
reframes this entire ecosystem for me. Sure.
So you have the manatee grazing peacefully in
the channels, and then right nearby you have
the jaguar patrolling the water's edge, fully
capable of diving in to take down an armored
reptile. It really just shows you how rich the
available energy is in the system. An apex predator,
like a jaguar, requires a ton of fuel to survive.
It can't just live on a few bugs and frogs. If
a jaguar population is living there, it guarantees
that the underlying population of prey, the capybaras,
the caimans, the smaller mammals, is incredibly
healthy. The jaguar is the ultimate biological
indicator of a thriving ecosystem. And speaking
of those caimans, the brown caiman is specifically
listed here. as a key reptile resident. Cayman
crocodillus fuscus, yes. They are the sub -aquatic
rulers of the sanctuary. Between them and the
jaguars, the water is definitely a swim -at -your
-own -risk zone. I will leave my swimsuit at
home. And just to close the loop on the wildlife,
we have to mention the howler monkey. We definitely
do. Because the park is named El Mono after a
man. But the actual monos, the howler monkeys,
are physically right there up in the trees screaming
their heads off. It is a beautiful poetic coincidence.
And if you have never heard a wild howler monkey
vocalizes there, it is a genuinely terrifying
sound. How would you describe it for someone
who hasn't heard it? Well, it doesn't sound anything
like a typical monkey. It sounds more like a
wind tunnel or a roaring predator. It is this
deep, guttural, resonant roar that can literally
travel for miles through the dense forest. So
just imagine the absolute sensory overload of
being there. You are sitting in a canoe. It's
incredibly hot. The water around you is dark
and full of caimans. You have this red sap literally
bleeding from the massive tree roots. And then
overhead, you hear this demonic roaring echoing
through the canopy. It is atmospheric, to say
the very least. Which is a perfect pivot. Let's
talk about that atmosphere because we can describe
the animals and the trees all day But I want
the listener to really feel what it's like to
stand there What is the physical climate doing
to us while we are in the sanctuary? Well first
and foremost you are going to be sweating profusely
the notes say the average temperature is 28 degrees
Celsius So that's what about 82 Fahrenheit. Yes,
but remember that is the average that includes
the dead of night During the day with the direct
Sun and the humidity the actual feels like temperature
is going to be significantly higher. And because
it's a coastal swamp, the humidity is frequently
hovering right near 100%. So it's like walking
through soup. Exactly. The air feels physically
thick. You breathe it in, and it just feels heavy
in your lungs. And what about the rainfall? because
swamps obviously need water. They get about 1
,100 millimeters of precipitation annually, but
it isn't evenly spread out. It is very rhythmic.
And this is crucial to understand because the
swamp essentially breathes with the seasons.
So when do we need to bring the heavy duty umbrella?
April and November, those are your absolute peak
wet months. The skies just open up with these
torrential tropical downpours. The water levels
rise drastically, the salinity drops because
of all the fresh river water rushing in, and
the fish populations move much further inland
into the flooded forests. OK, and the warmest
months? June and July are typically the hottest,
but the real shift is the dry season. When is
that? That runs from December straight through
April. During this time, the water actively recedes.
The exposed mud dries out and starts to crack
in the heat. And obviously, the salt concentration
in the remaining water shoots up. Wow. This constant
oscillation, wet to dry, fresh to salty, that
is the actual engine that drives the whole sanctuary.
The plants and the animals are all deeply adapted
to this specific pulse. It sounds honestly exhausting
just trying to survive there. It is an extreme
environment. But that is exactly why it is so
special. It naturally filters out the week. Only
the highly specialized can survive here long
term. So bringing this all back together, we
have this 38 .5 square kilometer patch of land
spanning Sucre and Boulevard. It's a natural
monument. It is a literal memorial to Elmono
Hernandez. It holds the only pure bloodwood cork
forest left. But why does all this matter to
you, the listener who might just be driving to
work or doing the dishes right now? I think it
really matters on two distinct levels. First
is the strictly practical level. This specific
swamp acts as a giant kidney for the entire region.
It filters the water flowing out to the sea.
It physically holds the coastline together against
storms. It actively sequesters immense amounts
of carbon down in that deep peat -like mud. So
it's protecting us globally. Right. If you destroy
this, you degrade the entire surrounding coastline.
The local fisheries would collapse. The coastal
erosion would speed up. It is vital functional
infrastructure for the planet. And what's the
second level? The second level is about our concept
of heritage. We are so used to thinking of heritage
solely as old buildings or ancient cathedrals
or marble statues, but a pure stand of tarot
-carpist trees that has managed to exist in balance
for thousands of years. That is heritage. It's
essentially a living biological library. Exactly.
And once you burn down a library, you can't just
go out and buy the books back. They are gone
forever. This sanctuary preserves a genetic lineage
that is utterly unique to the Colombian Caribbean.
And that beautifully connects right back to the
man it's named after. Yeah. Jorge Ignacio Hernandez
Camacho didn't just look out and see a muddy
swamp. He saw that exact library. He recognized
the profound value of the books inside it. before
anyone else did. And because of him, he ensured
that we can still read those books today. I think
that is the real power of individuals in conservation.
We tend to think of saving the planet as this
vague, massive global effort, but so often it
actually comes down to just one passionate person
looking at one specific patch of land and saying,
no, this stays, this is important. It really
does make you completely rethink the maps we
use every day. We just see borders and roads
and city names. But behind every single one of
those lines, there are intense stories. Every
protected area on a map is a victory story. Someone
had to fight for it to be there. So here is a
final provocative thought to leave you with today.
If you had to designate a natural monument in
your own life, a place that isn't necessarily
famous or grand, but is totally vital to the
ecosystem of your personal world, what would
it be? And who would be the El Mono in your life
that fought to protect it? That is a genuinely
great question to think about. It's definitely
worth a ponder. But we are going to wrap it up
right there. Thank you for putting on your rubber
boots and trekking through the deep mud with
us today. It was a pleasure. Stay dry out there.
We will see you on the next deep dive. Stay curious.