#turbai

[drabbles-mc]

Cuidate

Horacio Carrillo x Diana Turbay

Written for the other half of my brain @ashlingnarcos as part of the Rare Pair Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, major character death, angst, language, alcohol, grief/mourning, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: These two. THEEEESE two. Much to think about.

Narcos Taglist: @garbinge @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @justreblogginfics @proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon @purplesong1028 @narcolini @cositapreciosa

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

That was one of the first things that Carrillo ever remembered Diana saying to him when they first met. She said it with a warm smile on her face and a firm shake of his hand. Despite the softness of her features, the level nature of her voice, Carrillo could still see the glint in her eye.

As time went on, it became her favorite thing to tell him. It was amusing at best, infuriating at worst. The most infuriating thing about it was that she wasn’t ever really wrong when she said it, although most times Carrillo wished that she was.

Because he had to see things as simply as possible. For the sake of his job, for the sake of what little sanity he still had left, he had to try and see things as plainly as he possibly could. He wished that he could be more like Diana, although he’d never actually said that to her. But it was true. The fact that she still could stay so hopeful, so level-headed while trying to see more than both sides of everything that was going on, he truly didn’t know how she did it. He wouldn’t be able to. It was hard enough for him to listen to her own trains of thought on it some days. Again, not because she was wrong, but because she more often than not raised very good points. He couldn’t imagine living with so many textures and layers going on in his head all the time, not when it came to the state of the world around him. He admired her for that and so many other things.

But the first time she said that to him, he had no idea that he was going to be in for all of that. The first time she said it was after they’d introduced themselves, and Carrillo had made a bit of a slick remark about everyone already knowing who Diana was at that point, like her introducing herself was a bit redundant. In short, he deserved the statement and the look in her eyes that had come with it that day.

Since then there had been a lot of late nights, early mornings, and long conversations. Carrillo had learned more about Diana than he ever thought possible, learned how little the rest of the world actually knew her. She was never a woman who seemed to lack depth, but the more time he spent around her, the more he realized the sheer vastness that she had to her, and the best he could do was try to keep up.

There were nights that Carrillo would come home to find Diana sitting in the living room, the television playing news being reported by anyone other than her. She’d have the paper from earlier in the day open in front of her, soaking up what everyone else had to say. Every now and then Carrillo would try to get a rise out of her, just to see if he could. He’d poke and prod, knowing that there were plenty of reporters in Escobar’s pocket and the things they wrote would reflect that. Others were just scared, and who, besides Carrillo, could blame them?

Diana didn’t, though. She didn’t blame them, not really. Even her criticisms of other reporters, politicians, the narcos, they hardly ever actually sounded like criticisms. More often than not she would phrase things as questions, or statements that masqueraded as almost perfectly neutral but Carrillo could tell by the look in her eye that there was venom hidden underneath it for anyone who was willing to try and sink their teeth into her.

Some mornings Carrillo was up and almost out the door before Diana had even started to stir. Other nights they’d be fast asleep and one of them would get called away. On really bad nights, both of them got called away for the same reason. No matter who was leaving, or why, there was always a softly spoken direction to stay safe. The type of thing that Carrillo would’ve found futile to say in any other circumstance, knowing that safety was something that was largely out of their own hands at any given moment. But then he would look at her and the words would just come tumbling out. Or she would say it to him and he’d be helpless to do anything but nod and promise her that he’d try. She gave him more depth all the time.

Even with that, in Carrillo’s mind it was logical for him to try and brush off Diana’s attempt to humanize everything that was happening around them. It didn’t do him any good in a way that made his life any easier. But there were nights when he would come home, weary from wounds that were never going to show on the outside except for the flecks of gray hair coming in too early and the dark circles beneath his eyes, that her softness and understanding felt like home. She knew things that he didn’t have it in him to say, understood it without making him suffer through trying to articulate it.

She saw the burden that he carried on his shoulders. More weights added with each officer that he lost. He tried his best to compartmentalize it, knowing that if he didn’t it would break him in a way that he wouldn’t ever be able to come back from. He tried to bury it in late nights and drown it in liquor, keep the edges from fraying however he could.

There were more nights than either of them wanted to admit when they would go to bed together, only for Diana to wake in the middle of the night to find the other half of the bed empty. She would wait, and listen. If she didn’t hear anything, she would force herself out of bed. There was the checklist of things that she would look for along the way, signs that pointed to whether or not he was still home.

Sometimes when he was still there, she would find him sitting at the table. Some nights he would have reports and photographs spread out in front of him. Other nights, all he would have was a bottle and a glass. Sometimes it was hard for Diana to tell which was worse.

She would take the bottle, close it without asking for permission or saying much of anything to him. She’d put it away, coming back for the glass next. Holding it in one hand, she would rest the other on his back or his shoulder.

“Ven a la cama,” she’d tell him, her voice gentle and tired.

He would shake his head, like he was going to make the next big break sitting alone at the dining room table at 2AM. “Tengo que—”

“Qué tienes que hacer ahora? Mm?” she’d challenge lightly as she squeezed his shoulder.

He knew that he could try to give her an answer, but he also knew that it wasn’t ever going to be one that was good enough to sway her. One person he was hard-pressed to win an argument against.

For all of Diana’s steadiness, Carrillo could still tell when things would start to shake her. She somehow found a way to balance it, being honest about her feelings, her fears, and yet still being professional when she needed to be. A balance Carrillo was fairly certain that he wouldn’t ever strike. She wore it well. Articulated it even better. It was how she got a security team making sure that she got to and from scenes safely, because she’d be damned if someone was going to scare her away.

It wasn’t necessarily uncommon that the two of them would end up needing to go to the same place. When it came to Escobar, their jobs were entwined in a way that made things more complicated for them both on and off the clock. They adapted, adjusted—there wasn’t much of an alternative. It was another night of the same, separate means to the same end. Carrillo had beaten Diana and her team to the scene only by a few minutes. He and Valeria had that in common.

It wasn’t Carrillo’s place to insert himself into whatever was transpiring between the two women. That wasn’t what he was there for. But he also couldn’t pretend that he didn’t notice it. He could see the tightness in Diana’s jaw, the stiffness that only took over her body when she had her hackles up. It happened so rarely that Carrillo instantly felt anger flash through him, directed at a woman who he didn’t particularly care for sure, but he didn’t really know her, either. He knew better, though, than to think that Diana couldn’t hold her own.

He saw the smug grin on Valeria’s face as she turned and walked away from Diana. What he noticed even more was the way it took a bit for the edges in Diana’s features to soften again. She took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling from the intensity of it, the effort put in to get herself back in check. There was work to do. For all of them.

“I don’t know how she sleeps at night,” Carrillo said when the two of them got home in the small hours of the morning.

Diana chuckled as she wiped the makeup from her face. Her amusement at his reaction replacing the anger that had been coursing through her earlier in the evening. “Yes, you do.”

His eyebrows shot up at her response, looking at her through the mirror above their bathroom sink. He cracked a brief smile before returning to undoing the buttons of his fatigues. “Not what I meant.”

She smiled, still looking at him even though he was no longer looking at her. “I know.” She shut the faucet off, patting her face dry as she said, “Everyone is willing to accept different things, Horacio.”

“No one should be willing to accept that.”

Diana shrugged, giving a small nod. “Maybe not. I don’t agree with her methods, or the fact that she chooses to keep his company.”

He shrugged off the outer layer of his uniform, leaving just the green t-shirt that he had on underneath. He could hear the way her sentence trailed off slightly. “But?”

“But,” she turned around, leaning back so that the sink counter was keeping her propped up, “when all of this started?” She shrugged. “Pablo Escobar was someone that the people of this country could root for, stand behind.”

Carrillo scoffed. “Paisa Robin Hood.”

“You didn’t see the appeal?” she questioned.

“I see all the dead bodies trailing behind him since,” he replied. “Why should I give a fuck about his potential, Diana? After everything he’s done? Everything he’s still doing?”

“It’s not that simple,” she cut him short. She watched him shake his head and waited for him to look at her. “Ya lo sabes eso.” She could see the disdain in his features. Not directed at her, necessarily, but at all of it. The state of things. “If you want to understand why people will still help him, you need to acknowledge that potential. Even Valeria—it’s far past that now but that potential is what drew her in at first too.”

His only response was an unintelligible grumble and a shake of his head. After a beat, he told her, “I saw the way you looked at her.”

Diana smiled small at the callout, the way it doubled as a diversion. With so much else going on, the only two people who saw her expression during that conversation were Valeria and Carrillo. Fitting. “I’m not perfect. It gets to me sometimes. She gets to me sometimes.” Stepping in, she rested her palm against his chest. “All the good it does me, hm?”

Carrillo brought his hand up and rested it over hers. He wished he could level himself out that easily. He watched in real time as she worked through her feelings. Sometimes the work went quicker than others, but she always came out seemingly balanced on the other side of it. Even if it was just a façade for work, even if it was just a mask temporarily put in place to get her to the next thing. It worked. Carrillo wished that he worked the same way. He’d have fewer warpaths in his wake.

“Come,” she pulled both their hands away from his chest, tugging him towards the door. “It’s been a long day.”

He let out a tired hum of agreement. Letting her pull him away, he swiped the button-down of his fatigues on the way out. He flipped the lights off along the way, letting everything fade into darkness as the two of them finally got to retreat to their room. Sleep was hard to come by, but he at least had the comfort of knowing he wasn’t struggling to find it alone.

One night faded into the next. It was relatively quiet until it wasn’t. The phone ringing sounded nearly deafening at the late hour. Diana beat him to it, tangling her fingers in the cord of it as she held it to her ear. Even though he could only hear her side of the conversation, Carrillo knew within the first couple exchanges that it was not only a call for her, but one that was going to take her away for the rest of the night.

“Gracias,” she brought the call to a close, already taking the phone away from her ear as she said, “Hasta pronto.”

Carrillo didn’t say anything for a moment, just looking at her from where he was sitting on the couch. He couldn’t tell by the look on her face how she felt about whatever had just been said to her. “Todo bien?” he tossed out in hopes of gleaning a little more from her.

“No,” she replied honestly, already looking around for her shoes and jacket, “pero, es lo que es, sí?”

He frowned at that. He knew that it had all been weighing on her, the way that everything felt like it was happening closer and closer to home as time went on. She had more hope in her than most, but it didn’t go untested. “Qué puedo hacer?”

She gave him a tired smile, shaking her head. “Nada.” Walking over to him, she leaned in, kissing him softly on the lips. She felt his palm against the side of her face and she soaked it up for an extra moment. “Te quiero.”

The edges of his mouth lifted slightly. Not quite a smile, but not the worried frown that it had been a few moments before. “Te quiero.” He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “Cuidate.”

Her smile was warm as she pulled away from him and made her way for the door. “Siempre.”

It wasn’t long after she left that Carrillo got called away as well. He wasn’t home to see that she never made it back.

“They got another one,” Javi said as he came striding into the room.

“What?” Steve asked, looking up from the map that he and Carrillo had been pouring over together.

“Escobar’s men,” Javi elaborated. “They picked up another hostage.”

Both men were looking at Javi now, but it was still only Steve speaking as he asked, “Who?”

Javi’s lips pulled down into a deep frown at the question. He knew that it was coming. If it wasn’t Steve that asked, it would’ve been Carrillo, or anyone else who was lingering around and caught wind of the news. There was no getting out of saying it, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be the one to break it to them. Especially not when Carrillo’s eyes were practically tearing through him already.

“Who, Javier?” Carrillo pressed.

He wanted to look away but he couldn’t—he owed the Colonel that much. “Diana.”

Silence washed over the small room. Steve couldn’t bring himself to look at the man standing next to him, meanwhile Javi felt like his eyes were all but glued to him. Both of them were waiting for something. An implosion, for the concrete walls to crumble around them, something. It was so silent they were sure that no one was even breathing.

Carrillo’s fists were clenched so tightly as they rested on the tabletop, Javi was surprised that his knuckles didn’t break the skin. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t, the air getting stopped about halfway down before he grit out, “We have to fucking find him.”

Javi nodded. “We will. We’ll find him. Everyone—hey,” he waited for Carrillo to look at him, “Everyone is coming home.”

It almost looked like Carrillo nodded, but before he really committed to the action, he bailed on it. Walking over and blowing past Javi, he uttered on the way out, “They need to be coming home alive.”

Carrillo had more freedom with the Search Bloc than he’d had in a long time. But he was the only one out of the three men who really had the ability to do anything close to what he wanted to do. Javi and Steve were more than willing to dive into the thick of it, but the DEA and the CIA both had their hands tied. Judging by the look on Carrillo’s face, however, the two agents had a feeling that the Colonel was going to be bringing them along for the ride. Red tape be damned. Some people said they’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission, but Carrillo wasn’t really in the habit of asking for forgiveness either. Whatever needed to be done, whatever that looked like, he was going to do it. And he was going to do it unapologetically.

Steve and Javi lingered behind even after Carrillo left. Steve was on the far side of the table from Javi, nearly a whole room between them as he lingered close to the doorway. They looked at each other, neither of them saying anything for a moment as they tried to figure out what was going to be next. They could try to sit there and be logical and say that this didn’t change the game at all, that yes there was another hostage in play now but that it wasn’t new circumstances. But that would’ve been a lie and they knew it. Carrillo was objective until he wasn’t—they all were.

Steve shook his head, finally breaking the silence. “If we don’t get her back, Jav—”

“I know,” he didn’t even want Steve to finish the thought. He walked over, looking at the map spread out on the table in front of them. “So, we’re going to.”

Days ticked by with nothing to show for it. It was infuriating, and it felt like with every passing hour that held no update, no tangible win for their operation, another stitch of Carrillo’s seams began to rip. One of the only people capable of smoothing them over and pulling the strings back together now taken off the chess board.

Then they received the first tape.

Carrillo was in the second wave of people to see it. Diana’s parents, Sandoval and Gaviria, they saw it first. It was delivered directly to them. It was handed off to Carrillo afterwards, and not because of any respect to his relationship to Diana, but because they were hoping that there would be something he or his team could glean from it. Carrillo hoped the same, or at least, he’d get around to hoping the same eventually once he worked through the slew of anger and fear that went through him at the sight of her on his television.

That was how the whole country knew her—staring into their homes and hearts from the other end of the camera, the other side of the TV. Despite that degree of separation, all of Colombia had fallen in love with her. She had that way of making people feel like they knew her, like she was a friend or an acquaintance breaking the news each night rather than a woman most of them had never met in person. And most times, when the television was playing at the base and Carrillo would hear Diana’s voice in the background while he was working, there was a sense of pride there, sometimes even comfort. There was distance, sure, but at least he could still hear her. But now, in that moment he had never hated the gap between them more.

Javi and Steve were in the room with him, all of them gathered around the television as he played the tape. Carrillo was aware of their presence when the tape started. But by the end of it, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away.

The television screen went to static at the end. For a moment, no one moved, no one said anything. Steve and Javi were afraid to even breathe. Carrillo’s eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him, jaw clenched tight, fists clenched even tighter.

Javi mustered up every bit of bravery he had left in him and broke the silence. “Carrillo—”

He didn’t let Javi get to whatever the second word of that sentence was going to be. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.” He opened and closed one hand, like undoing and redoing the action of making a fist would somehow satiate the need to put it through something. “I’m not waiting around any longer.”

Steve was about to speak up and say something, but Carrillo disappeared from the room in a flash, static still going on the television. Javi let out a deep breath, chin dropping so that he was staring at the floor. Steve watched him, waiting for some sort of cue.

“What more is there to do?” he finally asked. “Carrillo’s already got his guys kicking in doors. Never does us—”

“There are plenty of doors he hasn’t kicked in yet, Murphy,” Javi told him with a shake of his head. “Now those are gonna go too. Come on,” he motioned for Steve to follow him, “we’re gonna make some friends.”

Calling the agreement that formed between the DEA and the CIA a friendship was more forgiving than any of them deserved. Still, it was mutually beneficial for two groups of people who hated feeling like they were just sitting on the sidelines, hands shoved in their pockets. They just wished that it was yielding more tangible results.

The second tape came and it was the last thing that that television was ever able to play.

In the aftermath of the second tape, one of the only wins was that everyone was granted more leeway by Gaviria. The stakes of the game continued to change, getting more intense with each passing day. For all of the differences and opinions between them, Carrillo had a small pocket of space in the back of his mind dedicated to being thankful that Diana’s parents had their thumb over Gaviria’s pulse on this. He never said it, hardly ever even saw them, but he felt it in passing moments and that was the best that he could offer for the time being.

“We got a hit,” Javi said as he got out of the car, sat-phone in hand, relieved to finally have some good fucking news to share.

The relief was palpable, radiating off of everyone except for Carrillo. He had gone on too many wild goose chases over the last weeks. He would continue following up on the leads that were given to him, he was drowning in desperation after all, but he was worn out enough to allow himself a moment of hesitancy.

He saw it on Carrillo’s face, too. Hopefulness hadn’t ever been one of the man’s most notable attributes, but in the wake of Diana being taken, Carrillo had never felt the strain between wanting to have hope, and feeling like it was constantly being taken away from him like that before.

“Where?” he finally asked.

“Not far.” Javi made a vague motion around them. “Round up your guys—let’s go.”

That was a direction that Carrillo followed without wasting a moment. He relayed the information as Javi was giving it to him, already getting back into the car.

The instant sound of gunfire when they showed up let them know that they were in the right place. With the number of sicarios that were lingering outside, Carrillo wouldn’t have been surprised if Escobar was hiding out in the house somewhere.

Carrillo and all the men that were with him descended on the house. Silent and quick efficiency. There was no noise outside of the scattered gunfire. Carrillo couldn’t hear the voices of anyone. Not Escobar, not sicarios, and certainly not hostages. He felt that strange pang in his chest, the feeling of hope being pulled out of him. There wasn’t time for that in moments like the one he was in. The stakes were too high—too many lives on the line. He tried to stuff it down. He’d get around to feeling it later. Or he wouldn’t.

A bullet whizzed by his face and snapped him back to the task at hand. He fired back instantly. In that moment, all the years that he spent compartmentalizing came into play. He shut everything else out. The only thing on his mind was what was in front of him. Which was one of Escobar’s men with a gun pointed directly at his face.

He followed him down a short hallway, into a nearly-empty side room off of it. The man continued to fire, but Carrillo barely noticed the bullets coming toward him as he started to shoot back. A couple missed their target, burying themselves in the walls, in the standing wardrobe that was pushed into the back corner of the room. Carrillo barely noticed the strays when all of the others landed right where they were supposed to. Sent the man stumbling backward before he finally crumpled to the floor.

The Colonel didn’t even allow himself a moment to breathe. Killing sicarios wasn’t what he had shown up there for, although it was a side-effect that no one including him was upset about. He was there to find Escobar. He was there to find Diana. Anything else was secondary.

Gun still at the ready, he strode over to the wooden closet in the back of the room. He could feel Trujillo lurking behind him, ready for whatever was going to happen next. Or, as ready as either of them thought they could be.

When Carrillo pulled the closet door open, nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for what he saw inside. His hold on his gun instantly laxed, the mouth of it dropping to point at the floor. The entire world around him came to a standstill for a moment as he took in the sight of what he’d done. The only sound he was able to register, was the deep sigh that Trujillo let out behind him. No amount of prayers would ever clear Carrillo’s conscience of this.

He dropped to one knee, gun clattering against the ground as he went. His elbow dug into the knee of his bent leg, hand coming up to cover the lower half of his face as he looked at Diana, looked at what he’d done to her. All the countless hours of panic over what Escobar and his men might be doing to her, and he was the one who did this. Catching Escobar at any cost was an ideal that slipped completely from his mind in that moment. As he looked at her, trying to reconcile how she looked in that moment with how she looked like the last time he saw her, the last time he held her, he couldn’t help but to think for the briefest moment that he couldn’t keep going if she wasn’t going to either.

He couldn’t even bring himself to say it. It was a herculean effort to speak any words at all as he tried to update the entire team on what happened without actually telling them what happened. “We have a problem,” he forced out, his voice devoid of any emotion despite the tidal wave of them flooding his chest at the moment.

He was instantly met with others asking what happened, what the problem was. But he wasn’t able to answer. Those four words were all that he had in him, the sight in front of him gluing his feet to the floor. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Truijllo’s voice was static behind him, words garbled in his ears even though the man was only a few inches away from him. It was probably better that way.

Everyone continued to go through the routine that they’d all established so well. The only one who was frozen in place was Carrillo. He could feel the way that he wanted to crumble completely to the floor. The trembling in his hands hadn’t been there while they were all crashing through the house.

It was all a blur after that. The only thing that clearly registered to Carrillo next was the desperate voice of Diana’s mother after the news had been delivered. Carrillo wasn’t even the one who told her. Word had spread to her before he even made it back from the raid.

“Qué hiciste?” she stormed up to him, some people hesitating like they were about to stop her but no one quite committing to the action. No one could blame her for whatever she was going to do next.

Carrillo felt the burning sensation of tears in his eyes, something that he hadn’t been acquainted with in a long time. Still, he managed to meet her gaze. It was the least he could give her. “Lo siento, señora, para su—”

“No,” she cut him off, making a sweeping gesture with her hand, “no quiero sus disculpas.”

The cruel words that followed barely registered, not because he wasn’t listening to what she was saying, but because nothing that she could tell him would ever stack up against the thoughts that had been running through his mind ever since he pulled back that wooden door. If anything, it was a reprieve, because no one else could ever measure up to the things that he was saying to himself in that moment. However, as he looked into Nydia’s eyes, he had the thought that she was a close second.

“Tu hiciste esto,” she said, her voice shaking, tears staining her cheeks.

“No es tan sencillo,” the words fell from his lips and instantly left a bitter taste in their wake. Diana always made it sound true, even in the moments when he wanted to tell her she was wrong. She never was.

“Sí,” she argued, “lo es.”

All he could bring himself to do was nod, knowing that much like her daughter, Nydia wasn’t telling him anything but the truth. He could try to come up with a million things to say in an attempt to placate her. He was no stranger to confronting grieving family members, grieving spouses. The argument could be made that he should feel guilty about all of those deaths leading up to this one, that he had a hand in each of them. And from a certain perspective that would be true. They were his men, his responsibility. Perhaps he did hold some of the fault.

But this wasn’t anything like that.

His involvement in this wasn’t some vague distant thing. It wasn’t just a sense of commitment and duty that wasn’t enough. This was his fault because of something that he did. Diana’s death was a direct result of his own actions. And sure, he could listen to others saying that there were a million other factors that contributed to it, things preceding the event that were just as much to blame. Those statements weren’t inaccurate, but Carrillo knew that they didn’t absolve him. Yes, if Escobar’s men hadn’t kidnapped her in the first place they wouldn’t be in the situation they are now. But also, if he’d been more careful, if he hadn’t pulled the trigger as many times as he did, they also wouldn’t be dealing with the loss that they were now. And the Colonel only had control over one of those sets of circumstances.

Eventually the room emptied. Both of Diana’s parents were escorted out. Where they went, Carrillo had no idea. He was given permission to leave, to go home if he wanted. But he didn’t want to. He left, because there was only so long that everyone could simply stand in that room together looking at each other in sad and uncomfortable silence.

His office was empty and he had never been so thankful for it. He shut the door behind him, the click of it barely audible. Looking around the room, everything felt like salt in the wound. All the photographs, maps with routes diligently mapped out that ended up leading him nowhere. Tapes stacked and filled with conversations that did him no good now. The broken television on the far side of his office was still there, cracked and falling apart, just like everything else at the moment.

Slowly walking behind the desk, Carrillo pulled out his chair. He looked at it for a moment, but his legs wouldn’t let him sit. Instead, he paced. He could feel the burning sensation deep in his chest, emotions that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. They were always there, lurking just a few layers below the surface, but he never had the time to deal with them, so he didn’t. But now here he was, pacing in an office that was getting darker and darker by the minute as the sun continued to sink out of view of the windows, and he had all the time in the world to try and feel them. Still, he paced. Instead, he grabbed the bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and opened it, not even bothering with a glass.

He’d lost track of the time when he heard someone knocking at the door to his office. He froze, bottle clutched tightly in his hand as he leaned back against the side of his desk. He still hadn’t sat at his desk, but at least he was giving his legs the slightest bit of a reprieve.

The door opened despite the lack of a cue to enter. When Javier walked in, whatever surprise Carrillo had been feeling faded away. The annoyance didn’t though.

“What are you still doing here?” Javi asked, knowing that there was no way in hell Carrillo was going to give him a straight answer.

“Working,” Carrillo responded, his voice not sounding at all like his own.

Javi scoffed, shaking his head as he walked deeper into the room. He took the bottle out of Carrillo’s hands, finding the cap and setting it out of reach. “Yea, looks like you’re getting a lot of work done.”

“What do you want, Javier?”

“Nothing.” It wasn’t a lie, not completely anyway. It wasn’t as though he came here to ask anything of Carrillo, wanted anything from him. But when he was about to leave and he saw the Colonel’s car sitting in the parking lot still, he knew that he couldn’t just leave.

“I did this,” he whispered after a tense minute of silence between them.

“C’mon,” Javi said, a waver of uncertainty in his voice, “you know it’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” he snapped. He shook his head, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes for a moment. “Diana...she didn’t…she didn’t deserve this.”

Javi frowned, nodding. “I know.” He paused. “But you can’t blame yourself for it.”

“There’s no one else to blame,” he said, his voice heavy, like he only knew there was no one else to blame because he’d tried to find someone and came up empty.

“You need to go home.”

Carrillo shook his head, waiting for Javi to look him in the eyes before saying, “Why?”

Javi’s frown deepened at the question. He knew that, “Because Diana is dead and you look like shit and you can’t just sit here drinking yourself to death all night,” wasn’t going to be the appropriate or acceptable answer.

“Because she wouldn’t want you here doing this.” Javi saw the way that Carrillo’s eyes dropped to the ground at his words. “You owe her that.”

Carrillo closed his eyes, unable to handle the weight of those four little words. He owed her so much more than that. He owed her things that he would never be able to give her, never be able to say to her. And somehow he was supposed to learn to live with that. He owed her a lifetime that he wouldn’t ever be able to have with her. There was nothing that he could do about it now, no way to fix it, no way to undo it. So, instead, he did the one thing he could do, and he grabbed his jacket to leave.

[cristinabcn]

COLOMBIA: SECRETARIA DE TURISMO DE CARTAGENA, REALIDAD EN EL 2024

COLOMBIA: SECRETARY OF TOURISM OF CARTAGENA, REALITY IN 2024 GUILLERMO LOZANO SARAH Periodista, Catedrático Universitario, Consejero Delegado Global de Turismo Columnista En ceremonia realizada el 15 de Marzo, hace unas semanas, asumió como Secretaria de Turismo, la Arquitecta y Urbanista Teresa Margarita Londoño Zurek, esta Cartagenera que tiene el honor de ser la primera Secretaria de Turismo…

[buenastereo]

Centro de Salud del Diana Turbay ya es un hecho histórico.

Centro de Salud del Diana Turbay ya es un hecho histórico.

En el territorio del Diana Turbay una zona socialmente deprimida al sur oriente de la localidad 18 Rafael Uribe, hacia 1987, la comunidad ve la necesidad de atender las necesidades en salud de esa población; por lo que se toma la decisión de destinar el espacio donde funcionaba la escuela para construir un centro de salud. Ante el crecimiento de la de la población hacia 1990 se ve la necesidad de…

[queenofthedisneyverse]

La Violencia (Research I did for Encanto fic writers so you don't have to)

TW: Assassination and death

Long but necessary post

@yellowcry @miracles-and-butterflies @evostar (if you already knew about it, that's fine, but reblog so others can too.)

To put it simply;

During this time, an estimated 200,000 people lost their lives, with 112,000 of those deaths occurring between 1948 and 1950. Additionally, two million people were forcibly displaced from their homes, primarily to Venezuela.

The root of this conflict lies in the intense partisan rivalries between Colombia’s two traditional political parties: the Liberal Party and the Conservative Party. These tensions created a divide between liberals and conservatives, eventually leading to the partial collapse of the state and existing institutional structures. As violence escalated, economic motivations began to outweigh political ones, and armed bands took advantage of the chaos to commit robberies, assaults, and revenge against their neighbors.

More in depth;

La Violencia was a ten-year civil war in Colombia from 1948 to 1958, between the Colombian Conservative Party and the Colombian Liberal Party, fought mainly in the countryside.

Liberal hegemony continued through the 1930s and the World War II era, and Alfonso López Pumarejo was reelected in 1942; however, wartime conditions were not favourable to social change. In the elections of 1946, two Liberal candidates, Gabriel Turbay and Jorge Eliécer Gaitán, stood for election and thus split the Liberal vote. A Conservative, Mariano Ospina Pérez, took office. 

Conservatives had been embittered by political sidelining and, since 1930, had suffered violent attacks at the hands of Liberal supporters. With the electoral victory of 1946 they instituted a series of crude reprisals against Liberals. It was the initiation of the period that was dubbed La Violencia. On April 9, 1948, Gaitán, leader of the left wing of the Liberal Party, was assassinated in broad daylight in downtown Bogotá. The resulting riot and property damage (estimated at $570 million throughout the country) came to be called the bogotazo.

La Violencia originated in an intense political feud between Liberals and Conservatives and had little to do with class conflict, foreign ideologies, or other matters outside Colombia.  Authoritative sources estimate that more than 200,000 persons lost their lives in the period between 1946 and 1964.

The most spectacular aspect of the violence, however, was the extreme cruelty perpetrated on the victims, which has been a topic of continuing study for Colombians. La Violencia intensified under the regime of Laureano Gómez (1950–53), who attempted to introduce a fascist state. His excesses brought his downfall by military coup—Colombia’s first in the 20th century. Gen. Gustavo Rojas Pinilla assumed the presidency in 1953 and, aided by his daughter, María Eugenia Rojas, began an effort to end La Violencia and to stimulate the economy.

Rojas was a populist leader who supported citizens’ demands for the redress of grievances against the elite. Support for Rojas began to collapse when it appeared that he would not be able to fulfill his promises, when he showed reluctance to give up power, and when the economy faltered as a result of a disastrous fall in coffee prices in 1957. He was driven from office that year by a military junta.

The arrangement for the National Front government—a coalition of Conservatives and Liberals—was made by Alberto Lleras Camargo, representing the Liberals, and Laureano Gómez, leader of the Conservative Party, in the Declaration of Sitges (1957).

The unique agreement provided for alternation of Conservatives and Liberals in the presidency, an equal sharing of ministerial and other government posts, and equal representation on all executive and legislative bodies. The agreement was to remain in force for 16 years—equivalent to four presidential terms, two each for Conservatives and Liberals. The question of what governmental structure would follow the National Front was left unsettled.

It had been contemplated that a Conservative would be the first to occupy the presidency in 1958. When the Conservative Party could not agree on a candidate, however, the National Front selected Lleras, who had previously served in that office for 12 months in 1945–46.

During Lleras’s tenure an agrarian reform law was brought into effect, national economic planning for development began, and Colombia became the showcase of the Alliance for Progress (a U.S. attempt to further economic development in Latin America). But severe economic difficulties caused by low coffee prices, domestic unemployment, and the apparent end of the effectiveness of import substitution were only partially offset by Alliance aid. 

The Alliance increased Colombia’s economic dependence on the United States, which, to some Colombians, had serious disadvantages. By 1962 economic growth had come almost to a standstill.

The precarious state of the economy and the degree of social tension were revealed when only about half of those eligible to vote did so in the 1962 presidential elections, which brought Guillermo León Valencia, a Conservative, to the presidency.

During Valencia’s first year in office internal political pressures led to devaluation of the peso (Colombia’s currency), wage increases among unionized workers of some 40 percent, and the most rampant inflation since 1905. Extreme deflationary policies were applied in the next three years, raising the unemployment rates above 10 percent in the major cities and turning even more Colombians against the National Front. 

Less than 40 percent of the electorate went to the polls in the 1964 congressional elections.

Marxist guerrilla groups began appearing in Colombia during Valencia’s presidency. The first was the National Liberation Army (Ejército de Liberación Nacional; ELN), which was created by a group of Colombian students who had studied in Cuba.

Founded in 1964, the ELN followed strategies espoused by Che Guevara. Another guerrilla group, which followed two years later, was the Colombian Revolutionary Armed Forces (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia; FARC), which was more connected to Soviet-influenced communist movements. Much of FARC originated in the “resistance committees” that had appeared in Colombia during La Violencia.

Carlos Lleras Restrepo was the third National Front president (1966–70). He returned the economy to a sound footing, improved government planning for economic development, and pushed through political reforms essential to an orderly end to the Front (which seemed increasingly to constitute a monopoly of power by the Conservative-Liberal oligarchy).

Although the constitutional reform of 1968 stipulated that elections would become competitive again after 1974, the president was still required to give “adequate and equitable” representation to the second largest political party in his cabinet and in the filling of other bureaucratic posts.

Read more here (This article is mostly where I got my info from as well as copilot.ai. I know, AI is bad, but please don't judge me. I was not about to do six hours of research when I have a tool that can help me in seconds.)

What does this have to do with the madrigals?

Well, if you're planning on writing any madrigal (or all) outside of Encanto, La violencia is something you need to take into consideration. It's an important part of Colombia's culture and shouldn't be ignored.

(I just learned about it recently and in turn, need to rewrite some stuff. So I can only imagine that half of the Encanto fandom knows nothing about it)

What cities were safe you ask? I don't think there really was any.

Bogotá: As the capital of Colombia, Bogotá witnessed significant unrest during this period. Political factions clashed, leading to violence and instability.

Cali: Cali, located in the southwestern part of the country, also suffered from La Violencia. It was a hotspot for clashes between Liberal and Conservative supporters.

Medellín: Medellín, another major city, faced its share of violence. The conflict often played out in the streets, affecting civilians and communities.

Barranquilla: This coastal city experienced tensions between rival political groups, resulting in bloodshed and loss of life.

Cartagena: Cartagena, known for its historical significance, was not immune to the violence. The struggle between Liberals and Conservatives left scars on its urban landscape.

Cúcuta: Located near the border with Venezuela, Cúcuta also witnessed violence during La Violencia.

Palmira, Santa Marta, Soledad Atlántico, Armenia, Pereira, Neiva, Valledupar, Bucaramanga, Popayán, Villavicencio, and Soacha were other cities affected by the turmoil.

So, in either city, the madrigals would be exposed to this war if they chose to come out. Now, let's say Encanto is in the very center of Colombia (or at lease close to it) -

(Right where the red dot is)

The closest area is Villavicencio, Puerto Lypez, and Bogota. All three cities that were affected by the war. And I'm not saying Villavicencio is THAT close to Encanto, probably a week trip at best, but still.

Why did I choose the center of Colombia?

Because I don't see it sitting anywhere else. And it's convenient fic wise. But you can do what you want.

Now I'm not saying the Madrigals won't experience fun in the new world. They most certainly will (culture and technology wise), but the war is really unavoidable for them.

That's all for now, but if you have anything to add or for me to correct, reblog or message me.

[mandomover]

The Rookie

Chapter Twentyone - The Fall

A raid goes wrong and Carrillo is held responsible. Javi’s outspoken words shock you.

Warnings: swearing and smoking

Words: 2350

Next | Masterlist

Gaviria is getting antsy about negotiations with Escobar. He says he won’t negotiate, but word has come down the grapevine that former president Turbay, is pulling all political and financial support while Escobar has his daughter, and Gaviria, so new to his role, can’t risk losing any help he has.

So negotiations are ramping up between the government and Escobar yet you still wait like a sitting duck in the middle. Gaviria has given the CIA fucks the right to work again, allowing their surveillance planes to roam the skies, but you still don’t have full jurisdiction.

With a few coffee runs and a lot of flirting, the CIA agents have allowed you to listen in on their findings, meaning you aren’t all sitting bored in the office; Javi plotting maps while you take notes for what the team overhear. Murphy is due to return tomorrow, finishing off his paternity leave with Connie and Olivia and you had hoped you would have made some headway for him to return to.

Right now, you are sitting in the CIA’s office, a darker, smokier, and sweatier office than you thought possible, as they track and plan to support the search bloc on their attempt to find Diana and the other hostages Escobar took a few days ago.

This is Gaviria’s last hope before really having to succumb to pressure and negotiate with Escobar and while you do feel sorry for Gaviria in some manner, you are excited at the prospect of being here in case they free the hostages and get Escobar in the same breath, even if it kills you that it could be the CIA and not the DEA.

The room is quiet, the steady hum and buzz from the machines whirring while the staff sit at the control panels with their headphones and maps, ready for action. You and Javi are perched on a desk by the door, fresh coffee on hand from a run you did to the cafeteria ten minutes ago, giving you an extra buzz on top of the palpable excitement coursing through your veins at the prospect of this mission succeeding.

Javi is chain smoking, offering you one every few minutes when he lights a new one but you decline each time, too nervous to smoke right now.

“Ok, I have the coordinates locked, Gorilla was heard here not ten minutes ago so we’ll try there first,” Agent Moreno says into his headpiece, communicating with the search bloc. You are holding a walkie tuned to the same channel as the CIA so you can hear both sides while they speak, balancing an elbow on your hip to hold it close enough to both yours and Javi’s ears so you don't disturb the agents at work.

“Copy, we’re moving in now,” Carrillo’s crackly voice sounds over the walkie. “I’ll confirm when in position.”

You breath a sigh when the line cuts off, impatient and wishing you were out there to see what was happening instead of being stuck in here being babysat.

You sip at your coffee, wishing it were something stronger, quiet murmurs and whispers throughout the office while the agents wait to hear that the search bloc are ready to move in. Javi nudges you and you look up at him, deep brown eyes looking into yours.

“This isn’t forever you know. We’re the last people Gaviria wants to think about while all this is going on. But he’s getting cornered, so once this mission is cleared, he’ll tell us we’re good to go back to doing what we do best and stopping Escobar.”

“I hope so,” you murmur, “I’m not cut out for coffee runs and begging for scraps.”

“I can tell,” he smirks, taking a sip from your coffee and handing it back to you.

“In position. We’re moving in on three. Over,” Carrillo squawks, and you inhale sharply, gripping Javi’s arm tightly, waiting for the walkie to crackle again with another update. The agents look around from their positions at each other, also nervously waiting for their coordinates to be deemed useful in the fight against Escobar and hear that Diana and the other hostages have been secured safely.

Minutes pass slowly, everyone waiting with bated breath for something to happen and the channel be switched over and Carrillo give a progress report but no news is good news you guess. Waiting this long at least means they’ve found something rather than an empty building. You eye the seconds hand on the clock on the wall tick agonizingly slowly and you will for something, anything, to happen when the channel crackles and static sounds. You pierce Javi’s arm in a death like grip but he says nothing, even if you are squeezing too tight while you stare at the walkie.

“Bad news guys,” Carrillo says gravely. “Ms Turbay was shot in pursuit. One of eleven casualties. Ten of Escobar’s men.”

“Fuck!” Moreno hisses, yanking the headset off his head and throwing it at the console. He puts his head in his hands and you look at Javi, eyes forlorn as he returns the look with equal measure, letting go of his arm and picking your now cold coffee back up from the table instead, switching the walkie off and setting it into its base beside Moreno. You clap him on the shoulder as you pass and he rises from his chair, muttering “I’ll go tell Noonan.”

You raise a brow at Javi who grimaces and nods towards the door, signaling your time here is done.

As you cross the office space to grab your things from your desk, your heart plummets in your chest, thinking about what this could mean now. Surely Gaviria will have no choice but to negotiate with Escobar, even if his demands are laughable. While Escobar would technically hand himself in, it would mean all your work and efforts to capture Escobar would be null and void, especially if Gaviria gave in to the ridiculous demand to abolish extradition. But what choice did he have? What choice did you have? Keep on fighting and hoping that you would really get Escobar and hit him where it hurt. If he handed himself in it would be a lesser sentence for a bogus crime and he would be back on the streets building his empire even more than before in no time. But you had to have hope.

With the return of Murphy came the news that Gaviria had held crisis talks through the night and was willing to transparently negotiate with Escobar in hopes that a deal could be met meaning he would hand himself in. It was a huge blow to your efforts, especially now Gaviria had resided to give you control back; what good would it do now there was no one to capture?

Carrillo was also in trouble for his actions during the raid. While it was entirely accidental shooting Diana Turbay, he still had to be held accountable for his actions and drastic choices. You watched him march through the office on his way to the presidential office and you wished him well in his meeting but he hadn’t returned yet and that was nearly four hours ago. You had mooched through the building, feigning a need for fresh air and more coffee, but you were hoping to run into Carrillo. Or anyone who could give you information as to what the fuck was going on. As you took the stairs up to your floor after another visit to the cafeteria for nothing in particular, you heard your name being called from behind you and stopped still, whirling around to greet Carrillo, his face impassive.

“Gather the gringos and meet me in my office in five,” he nods curtly at you, before sidestepping you and taking the stairs two at a time. You exhale, letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding and race up the stairs to go and grab Javi and Murphy.

Four minutes later you’re in front of Carrillo’s desk, on the edge of your seat waiting for Carrillo’s report back.

“Gaviria is in talks with Escobar. He’s accepting the negotiations.”

“Maldito hijo de puta,” Javi growls.

“He has to put forward the motion against extradition to the states and then Escobar will be taken to La Catedral which he has been building this whole time in the mountains. He knew things would end up here.”

“So what are the terms?” you ask, ignoring Javi who has jumped up from his seat and is pacing back and forward behind you, angrily hissing Spanish curse words under his breath.

“Extradition abolished for one,” Carrillo counts off on his fingers. “No police within three kilometers of the prison he himself has built, his own guards and men patrol it, and he goes down for only one drug trafficking charge.”

“That’s absurd,” Murphy shouts.

Carrillo holds his hands up in defeat, as if he’s accepted the ridiculous demands outlining the demise of Escobar. In fact, he’s relatively calm considering this is his life’s mission to sink Escobar and the pure hate and anger you have seen spill from this man for less.

“What about you?” you ask calculatedly, squinting at him.

He purses his lips and doesn’t answer, looking at the photo of him and his wife on his desk instead, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I am no more. I am to move to Spain.”

All three of you spit insults about Gaviria’s choice, disgust at Carrillo’s dismissal and annoyance at his reckoning, but Carrillo looks at you with a soft smile, as though he truly has accepted his fate.

“The search bloc is no more but promise me you will continue to do surveillance and track intel. You can still get him.”

You were stunned into silence. Not only is Carrillo going but the police unit was disbanding entirely? You can’t fathom the stupidity at the negotiations in the first place, but to actually hear the demands expected? Ludicrous.

“I have two weeks before I’m done. Enough time to tie up some loose ends. But no big raids.”

“That’s shit. What are we all supposed to do now?” Javi asks, and it makes you think of a child, looking around for a responsible adult in the room to give you guidance.

“You’ll be fine. You have your team and you’ll look out for each other. You’ve shown time and time again how you have each other’s backs and you make a great squad.”

Your eyes sparkle, the ever-there tears threatening to pour out. You look at Murphy and Javi proudly and they grin back at you, albeit Javi’s grin is forced, obviously thinking about the loss of Carrillo.

“I just wish your example would bleed into my men, I can’t promise they’ll behave.”

Carrillo turns to look out the window and you move beside him, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“These men are here because of Escobar.”

“I mean, we all are, we-”

“They’re here because of what Escobar has done to them. Here because Escobar or his men have killed their mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers. They’re here for vengeance and I’m not going to be able to stop them. Nor should I.”

You shiver and Carrillo turns to look at you, his face half in shadow as he looks at you, and he looks menacing. It’s like a threat. Don’t get in their way because they’re going to stop at nothing to get Escobar.

As if Carrillo can read your mind, he squeezes your arms and steals your focus, as if he’s looking into your soul.

“Have you got what it takes when it comes down to it Rookie? My men will stop at nothing. Is there a line you won’t cross?”

“Na, she’s in it all the way. She’ll do whatever it takes,” answers Javi for you, sneaking up behind you and clapping you on the shoulder, spreading both heat and ice through you.

Your mouth drops open, but no words come out.

What can you say? There’s always lines you have to cross in this job but Javi is answering like he knows you would cross every line imaginable. And that’s a scary prospect. The lines drawn out with the unimaginable. He thinks you’ll do whatever it takes no matter what. But you can’t commit and say you’ll do it all until you’re in that situation. You’re too surprised by the quick speed in which Javi answers on your behalf, you’re flummoxed for an example of something you would or wouldn’t do but surely there’s going to be a line you wouldn’t dream of crossing or even nearing someday? But Javi has taken that choice away from you, maybe without even meaning to. He might be singing your praises and offering confidence boosters by simulating this but he doesn’t know what he’s done by saying you’ll stop at nothing. You can only say that when you’ve done it. When you’ve experienced it. When you’ve truly stopped at nothing. And that scares you too. That Javi is capable of expressing these feelings as if he’s already crossed those lines. And that you don’t know scares you and you know it’ll take a lot of whiskey to prise that information out of him someday.

But for now, you just smile at Carrillo and say “you’ve been a great leader of the search bloc and I’ve enjoyed learning with you. This isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.”

You hold your hand out to shake, and he grasps it but doesn’t shake, “You have plenty in you that needs unlocked. It’s there. It’ll come when you need it,” he tells you with a wink, before pulling you into a crushing hug. Just as you wrap your arms tightly around him, he gruffs into your ear, “look after these two. Stay alert. I believe in you, Rookie.”

And when you pull apart moments later, his eyes are boring into yours, almost pleading with you to heed his words.

A/N: this is shoddy work. I’m sorry 😂 I was originally happy with the chapter but as I read and reread it more I fell out of love with it and it stopped me writing the next bits. I know where I want to go (roughly) but not exactly how to get there, so I’m struggling a bit to come up with the bits in the middle. So thankyou to everyone who has stuck by me and continues to read this lil piece even when it doesn’t entirely make sense.

It’s also hard being motivated when you’ve just given birth so bare with me in that regard too 😂

I have another chapter ready to post and I’ll post it in the next few days 🙌🏼🙌🏼

Tags: @wildemaven @ellenmunn @iamskyereads @tantamount-treason @axshadows @rav3n-pascal22 @stevie75 @movievillainess721 @lulzbrokenbyfantasy @pringleswingleschips @anotherr-fine-mess @no-food-in-the-fridge @th-em-vibes @tanzthompson @seececerun @rosadotostado @shmikenobi @happycupcakeenthusiast @solarilou @insxghtt @tsunamistorm123 @angelicbitchv @bigbottboy @snaxx7 @greatdreamfireplaid @gingerupset @sl-ut @slatdown47 @ericalynne007 @mswarriorbabe80 @arctickissy @midnightlycan @fibrogirlie @ghostauthor01 @hanxnxnah @bts-7613 @eg-dr3amer3 @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

[kakaji]

“Art says things that history cannot,” 1 said Beatriz González, an artist recognized for her appropriation of popular culture images from newspapers and magazines. Her career unfolded amid social and political turbulence following the 10-year period known as La Violencia (1948–58) in her native Colombia. Collaborating closely with the United States as part of its Cold War project to exterminate Communist activity, the Colombian government encouraged modernization projects that promoted a narrow concept of Latin American modern art as sophisticated, international, abstract, and, most importantly, apolitical.

After González’s first solo exhibition at the Museo de Arte Moderno de Bogotá in 1964, critics portrayed her as the epitome of an international modern artist whose work could circulate abroad. They praised her for her use of abstraction and, more tacitly, her seeming political neutrality. However, González soon shifted her focus to contemporary Colombian life. In her second solo show in 1967, she showed 14 new paintings based on images she had collected from newspapers and magazines, marking her turn toward the incorporation of vernacular culture. In particular, Rionegro, Santander (1967) evokes a sense of nostalgia both in its reference to the region where González’s went on holiday, and because the corners of the painting recall the fasteners in a family photo album.

In the early 1970s, González began to collect furniture from local markets. Her body of work from this period, which includes Lullaby, features enamel paintings of images from popular culture; the artist executed them on metal sheets, which she then mounted on furniture. Because of her appropriation of images from the media, as well as her interest in everyday subject matter and materials, she has often been mentioned in discussions of Pop art, a movement made famous by Andy Warhol. However, as art historian Esther Gabara explains, while the Pop art of the US is most associated with the idea of consumer culture, artists from Latin American often demonstrate how, in their context, consumerism cannot be separated from the history of colonialism, the extraction of natural resources, and the extreme discrepancy between poverty and wealth. 2 González’s incorporation of pop culture imagery was often labeled cursi—a Spanish word that roughly translates to “corny” or “overly sentimental.” This did not seem to bother her. When asked why she stopped using furniture, González responded, “Because people started to like it.” 3

In 1979, González turned her focus to the recently elected President Julio César Turbay Ayala, whose Statute of Security gave the military increased power to interrogate, torture, and ultimately disappear civilians suspected of subversive communist activity. 4 During the first two years of Turbay’s four-year term, every day González made stylized, simplistic drawings based on images of Turbay in private and political life. This body of drawings includes the satirical Turbay Skiing (1980), which meditates on the idea that Colombian politics had morphed into a mass media spectacle.

González has also worked extensively with printmaking. In 1983 she conceived of Zócalo de la tragedia and Zócalo de la comedia, two related series that feature images from the press. The former is based on an image of a man who killed his friend's girlfriend and then committed suicide, while the latter shows Turbay bestowing a state honor on a diplomat during the last days of his presidency. Speaking about Zócalo de la comedia, González explained, “The purpose was to ridicule [Turbay]. It was a bit of a mockery. I wanted the public to call into question the presidents and what Colombia represented, how presidents used power.”5 Collaborating with a print workshop, she reproduced these images, which she saw as representing two facets of national identity: violence and the decoration of national heroes. The prints were intended to be posted on the sides of buildings throughout Bogotá, but were quickly censored by the government.

González sees 1985—the year of a tragic confrontation between the guerrilla group M-19 and the Colombian military—as a turning point in her work. As she explains, this was the moment in which she thought, “I can no longer laugh,” and she began to focus even more critically on media images of drug trafficking, paramilitaries, and massacres.6 For one of her most recent works, Auras anónimas (2007–09), González covered the niches of former graves in Bogotá’s Central Cemetery with silhouettes that reference workers who clean up the corpses resulting from Colombia’s ongoing violence. With this work, she continues her project of rethinking the images we are confronted with daily by incorporating them into new and unexpected contexts.

- Madeline Murphy Turner, The Marica and Jan Vilcek Fellow, The Cisneros Research Institute for the Study of Art from Latin America

The research for this text was supported by a generous grant from The Modern Women's Fund.

1. Beatriz González and Maria Ines Rodriguez, “Conversacions con Beatriz González,” in Beatriz González 1965–2017 (Bordeaux, France: Musée d’art contemporain de Bordeaux, 2017), 209.

2. Esther Gabara, “Contesting Freedom,” in Pop América 1965–1975 (Durham, N.C.: Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, 2018), 11.

3. Beatriz Gonzalez, Discussion with Ana María Reyes, January 10, 2010, quoted in Ana María Reyes, The Politics of Taste: Beatriz González and Cold War Aesthetics (Durham; London: Duke University Press, 2019).

4. Carolina Ponce de Leon, “From Their Mighty Silence,” in Beatriz González: A Retrospective (Miami: Pérez Art Museum, 2019), 44.

5. Beatriz González, “Zócalo de la comedia. Zócalo de la tragedia. 1983,” Radical Acts (The Museum of Modern Art, New York). https://www.moma.org/audio/playlist/290/3756

6. Beatriz González, “Recuperar el Aura,” in Beatriz González: A Retrospective (Miami: Pérez Art Museum, 2019), 214.

[pipaton-blog1]

Aunque su estrella ha perdido brillo, y es muy improbable que lo recupere, hay que reconocer que por su astucia y por su larga influencia en la política nacional, Uribe es ya una figura comparable con Turbay Ayala y López Michelsen.

Julio César Londoño, 19 de agosto de 2024

El expresidente de Colombia no es un sujeto que podamos definir con facilidad. Su aspecto y sus maneras son las de un hombre aplomado, pero puede explotar súbitamente y meterle la mano al que sea, por ejemplo a Fabio Valencia Cossio, en plena Registraduría Departamental el día que Uribe fue elegido gobernador de Antioquia. En sus discursos alterna el lenguaje coloquial y los regaños paternalistas con las cifras y los análisis propios de un hombre de Estado. En pleno siglo XXI gobernó como un mandatario de comienzos del siglo pasado, como Juan Vicente Gómez, digamos, que gobernó a los venezolanos como si fueran sus hijos y a Venezuela como si fuera una gran hacienda. O como ese tirano de El otoño del patriarca, que detenía la caravana presidencial para bajarse a arreglar la máquina de coser de alguna comadre suya.

Esta es una de las razones de su popularidad. En una nación de millones de huérfanos, hablando en sentido literal, y de otros millones de ciudadanos huérfanos de Estado, Álvaro Uribe encarna la figura del padre. Muchos ven en él la personificación de la autoridad, la justicia y la protección.

Quizás el secreto está en la fusión que se inventó. Uribe piensa la política como un ejercicio autoritario y profesa a rajatabla la economía de mercado, pero se comunica con la gente con un estilo cálido y paternal. Ese vaivén entre estadista, patriota y compadre de carne y hueso sedujo a millones de colombianos.

Los atentados que sufrió no le hicieron ni un rasguño, y solo sirvieron para reforzar el mito: que no le entran las balas ni los jueces. Se cuenta que en uno de los atentados más graves, cuando los conspiradores hicieron estallar varios kilos de explosivos al paso de la caravana presidencial en Barranquilla, se bajó del carro, tranquilizó a su comitiva y dirigió el operativo de la retirada.

Es muy buen comunicador, tal vez mejor que Belisario Betancur, y el manejo de su imagen ha sido muy eficaz. Para sus alocuciones usa la televisión y controla los detalles del set; cuando de entrevistas se trata, prefiere las emisiones en directo, para evitar que lo editen.

Uno de sus años más difíciles fue en 2003, cuando las FARC volaron el club El Nogal (“Colombia llora, pero no se rinde”, dijo esa vez) y cuando asesinaron al gobernador de Antioquia, Guillermo Gaviria, y al comisionado de Paz, Gilberto Echeverry. Para rematar el año, su amado pueblo le tumbó el referendo y el presidente desapareció de escena una semana. “Quedó de cama”, afirmó Alfonso López Michelsen. Pero quizá su momento más amargo lo tuvo el 7 de agosto de 2010, cuando Juan Manuel Santos dejó en claro que tenía una agenda de gobierno propia y que era muy distinta a la de su mentor, palabras que refrendó en los primeros días de su mandato, cuando invitó a Cartagena a Hugo Chávez, y desactivó la guerra entre Colombia y Venezuela que Uribe y Chávez estaban programando con un entusiasmo demencial a raíz de la muerte de Raúl Reyes en un campamento guerrillero en Ecuador.

En lo personal, el peor momento de su vida ha sido el asesinato de su padre a manos de hombres de las FARC. El hombre, Alberto Uribe Sierra, un paisa de armas tomar, les hizo frente a los guerrilleros que pretendían secuestrarlo en una de sus fincas y murió en el tiroteo. Otros dicen que fue una venganza de dos hermanos campesinos por la violación de su hermana a manos del padre de Uribe, una versión que recoge León Valencia en su novela histórica La sombra del presidente.

Pero también conoce las mieles del triunfo, claro. Ganó las elecciones presidenciales de 2002, a pesar de que empezó con una favorabilidad del 1 % en las encuestas. Ha llegado a tener una popularidad rayada en la idolatría y un liderazgo superior al de líderes tan poderosos como Turbay Ayala y López Michelsen. Pero su momento más feliz fue el triunfo del “No” en el referendo por la paz en 2016. Fue su desquite contra Santos. Logró aguarle la fiesta. Esta vez fue Santos quien quedó de cama.

Tres señores de la noche

Uribe tiene cosas en común con los dos jefes militares más poderosos de Colombia en los últimos años, Tirofijo y Carlos Castaño. Ambos eran animales de guerra, porque la guerra les arrebató seres muy queridos; ambos tenían enemigos tan poderosos, que debían permanecer siempre dentro de los anillos de seguridad que giraban día y noche a su alrededor, como talismanes insomnes, y los tres son hijos de esa espiral de odios y retaliaciones que cubre los últimos 70 años de la historia de Colombia.

Recordemos que la Violencia, con mayúscula, empezó en 1948 con el asesinato de Gaitán, y que Las FARC nacieron en 1964 como un movimiento de autodefensa que buscaba proteger a los campesinos de la violencia oficial. Veintiún años después los Castaño montaron una empresa de seguridad privada, las AUC, para defender a los campesinos ricos que se estaban empobreciendo por el accionar de las defensas campesinas pobres, ahora enriquecidas a sus expensas. Y Uribe ganó las elecciones de 2002 con la promesa de recuperar para el Estado el monopolio de la fuerza, es decir, de defender al ciudadano común de tanta defensa.

De no mediar las fatalidades que torcieron su destino, seguramente Marulanda habría hecho fortuna con la venta de quesos y panelas, que era su trabajo cuando no estaba tocando tangos con el violín de su juventud. O estaría jubilado por el Ministerio de Obras, entidad que le enseñó a manejar explosivos cuando trabajó abriendo carreteras en Tolima.

Castaño podría haber terminado negociando ganado por internet, mimando a Kenia, su joven esposa, y leyendo sus autores favoritos: Machado, Benedetti, Kisinger, Gabo y Oriana Fallaci (tenía otras dos debilidades: una de señora, codearse con obispos, y otra de muchacho, el mecato).

En lugar de vivir en medio de decenas de escoltas, Uribe sería un caballista bohemio, haría versos, no yoga, y tomaría aguardiente, no pócimas bioenergéticas ni esencias florales.

Pero como el destino no puede ver a nadie feliz, les enredó la suerte a los tres. Por eso la mirada de Marulanda estaba llena de hastío, parecía harto de triunfos y traiciones. Puso al establecimiento de rodillas, sí, pero sabía que su victoria encerraba una derrota humillante: las FARC terminaron pareciéndose a sus enemigos, al establecimiento, los paramilitares y los narcotraficantes.

Por eso Castaño terminó enredado en sus contradicciones –entre arbustos de coca, cables de motosierras y banderas de “la patria”– y, finalmente, desapareció del panorama. Se dice que murió por orden de su hermano, Vicente Castaño, porque Carlos andaba negociando su entrega con las autoridades norteamericanas, lo que habría puesto nervioso a Vicente.

Por eso es que Uribe no ríe. Serio como pocos, ha lidiado demasiado tiempo con esa comparsa de payasos de nuestra política y terminó convertido en una caricatura de todo lo que ha criticado.

El escritorio

Sobre la mesa de centro de la sala de recibo de su despacho en la Casa de Nariño había tres hormigas, una amarilla, una azul y otra roja que se llamaban, previsiblemente, trabajar, trabajar y trabajar. A un lado había un ejemplar de la Constitución empastado en cuero y una pequeña caja de herramientas: un dulce abrigo, una lupa, un destornillador y un tarrito de aceite Tres en uno. Con este equipo hacía las pequeñas reparaciones con que se desestresa (me dicen que aún sigue esta terapia).

Sobre su escritorio presidencial mantenía, con el orden propio de los sicorrígidos, los nueve frasquitos de las esencias florales que le recetó Elsa Lucía Arango, su médica bioenergética, unas pócimas en las que el exestudiante de Oxford creía con la fe de un campesino antioqueño. En las paredes del despacho sólo había un cuadro, un mapa grande de Colombia. En el clóset, donde Andrés Pastrana guardaba los puros que le mandaba Fidel Castro, tenía la mejor colección de mapas de Colombia que uno pueda conseguir. Si usted necesita el mapa de minas de la nación, o el de caminos vecinales, o el de Mapiripán, tenga la seguridad de que puede conseguirlo con el expresidente.

Su habitación no tenía ventanas porque los encargados de su seguridad temían que las Farc le metieran un rocket por el vano.

Balance de su gestión

A Uribe le criticaron las altas cifras de desempleo, el bajo desempeño de su administración en lo social, las prácticas clientelistas a las que acudió para sacar adelante sus proyectos en el Congreso y la cantidad de alfiles suyos en la cárcel (dicen que tiene una espalda más ancha que la de Ernesto Samper). También le critican su maldita capacidad de polarizar y, en algunos sectores, el énfasis guerrerista de sus dos administraciones. Pero hay que reconocer que su bandera de campaña fue la guerra, que para eso fue elegido. Uribe canalizó el odio de la gente a las FARC y prometió acabarlas. En eso puso todo su empeño, y casi lo consiguió, pero el precio fue altísimo: fortaleció al paramilitarismo, cuyas hordas multiplicaron por mil la corrupción, dejaron ocho millones de víctimas y despojaron a los campesinos de 10 millones de hectáreas, según cifras de la Contraloría General de la República. La cifra es colosal. Diez millones de hectáreas son 4,5 veces el área del Valle del Cauca o 209 veces el área urbana de Bogotá.

Los buenos resultados en la guerra y la economía (¡Colombia llegó a crecer al 6,7 % durante dos años consecutivos, 2006 y 2007!) le garantizaron la reelección para el período 2006–2010. Todo le servía de propaganda. si las FARC lanzaban una ofensiva, fortalecían la política guerrerista del gobierno. Si hacían un repliegue táctico, aumentaba la “sensación de seguridad”. Si estallaba otro escándalo de corrupción, él le arrojaba a la galería la cabeza de un ministro. Si se producía un atentado, allí estaba él con su megáfono tonante y sus trucos mediáticos. Si las FF. AA. sufrían reveses militares, llamaba a calificar servicios a algún general (fueron más de 30 los generales removidos entre 2002 y 2010) y su popularidad crecía como espuma.

Los resultados positivos de la economía pueden imputarse en parte a la buena gestión de su minhacienda, Óscar Iván Zuluaga, a la buena ola económica sobre la que surfeaba la región entre 2004 y 2007, y también a una serie de privatizaciones de servicios públicos con buenas condiciones para la empresa privada, hecho que generó una alta inversión extranjera.

El presente

Después de su salida de la casa de Nariño, en 2010, la estrella de Uribe ha tenido destellos y apagones. Los dos triunfos de Santos le dolieron en el alma. El primero por la traición y el segundo porque Santos derrotó a su candidato, Jorge Iván Zuluaga, pero se desquitó en las presidenciales de 2014, cuando logró que su joven alfil, Iván Duque, derrotara a Gustavo Petro.

Sus múltiples problemas penales tuvieron su peor momento el 4 de agosto de 2020, cuando la Corte Suprema de Justicia le dictó medida de prisión domiciliaria por los delitos de fraude procesal y soborno a testigos. El expresidente fue prisionero durante 67 días, cuando una jueza dictaminó que podía responder en libertad por sus actuaciones. Pero el 25 de mayo de este año volvió a sufrir otro duro golpe, cuando la Fiscalía lo acusó formalmente por los mismos delitos que lo llevaron a prisión preventiva.

Otro momento duro para él, y para los políticos tradicionales, ocurrió en las elecciones regionales de 2019, cuando las tres principales ciudades del país quedaron en manos de alcaldes alternativos: Claudia López, Daniel Quintero y Jorge Iván Ospina. Para rematar, su archienemigo Gustavo Petro fue elegido presidente en 2022. Pero se desquitó en las regionales de 2023, cuando su partido tuvo buenos resultados. El Centro Democrático controla hoy el 10 % de las alcaldías, gobernaciones y asambleas del país, y el 20 % del Parlamento, unas cifras nada despreciables.

Aunque su estrella ha perdido brillo, y es muy improbable que lo recupere, hay que reconocer que por su astucia y por su larga influencia en la política nacional Uribe es ya una figura comparable con Turbay Ayala y López Michelsen, y con más presencia que ambos en el imaginario nacional, porque Uribe ha sido mucho más mediático. Casi mítico. Y los mitos políticos, se sabe, sirven para dos cosas: para darles un ropaje épico a las mentiras más burdas, o para acuñar las metáforas que nos ayudan a descifrar la realidad y a liderar los procesos que engrandecen a los países. Por desgracia, ya sabemos que el mito Uribe solo sirvió para lo primero. Nunca Colombia estuvo dividida de una manera tan pugnaz como en los últimos años. Nadie como él tuvo en sus manos las cartas del triunfo en la guerra, la popularidad y la economía.

Uribe tomó estas joyas, las trituró con esmero, las fundió con fuego y amasó con fervor de fanático la mezcla hasta convertirla en ese magma de babas y sangre donde hoy chapaleamos de la manera más estúpida. Ningún líder de la historia de Colombia había gozado de una conjunción astral semejante. Ningún líder, ni siquiera el monstruoso Laureano Gómez, causó nunca tragedias semejantes a las que desovó Uribe, ni atascó tanto la rueda de la historia y del progreso social, ni resquebrajó de tal manera la unidad nacional.

[ulkaralakbarova]

In Colombia just after the Great War, an old man falls from a ladder; dying, he professes great love for his wife. After the funeral, a man calls on the widow – she dismisses him angrily. Flash back more than 50 years to the day Florentino Ariza, a telegraph boy, falls in love with Fermina Daza, the daughter of a mule trader. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Florentino Ariza: Javier Bardem junger Florentino: Unax Ugalde Juvenal Urbino: Benjamin Bratt Hildebranda Sanchez: Catalina Sandino Moreno Don Leo: Hector Elizondo Lotario Thurgot: Liev Schreiber Transito Ariza: Fernanda Montenegro Sara Noriega: Laura Harring Lorenzo Daza: John Leguizamo Olympia Zuleta: Ana Claudia Talancón Escolastica: Alicia Borrachero America Vicuna: Marcela Mar Junge Witwe: Angie Cepeda Fermina Daza: Giovanna Mezzogiorno Rosalba: Rubria Negrao capitán samaritano: Andrés Parra Diego: Horacio Tavera Alcalde de la ciudad: Salvatore Basile Institutriz: Margalida Castro Gran dama hija: Carolina Cuervo gran dama: Patricia Castañeda Doña Blanca: Alejandra Borrero Mujer Atractiva: Paola Turbay Mujer Atractiva: Noëlle Schonwald Ricardo Faro: Jhon Álex Toro dulce vendedor: Julián Díaz Doliente: Carlos Duplat Sanjuan Ofelia Urbino – 40’s: catalina botero puta lotario: Denis Mercado Moreno Madre superior: Dora Cadavid …: Indhira Serrano Film Crew: Director of Photography: Affonso Beato Screenplay: Ronald Harwood Editor: Mick Audsley Executive Producer: Michael Nozik Executive Producer: Robin Greenspun Costume Design: Marit Allen Executive Producer: Chris Law Director: Mike Newell Executive Producer: Scott LaStaiti Original Music Composer: Antonio Pinto Novel: Gabriel García Márquez Executive Producer: Andrew Molasky Executive Producer: Danny Greenspun Executive Producer: Dylan Russell Producer: Scott Steindorff Executive Producer: Michael Roban Production Design: Wolf Kroeger Art Direction: Roberto Bonelli Art Direction: John King Art Direction: Paul Kirby Art Direction: Jonathan McKinstry Set Decoration: Elli Griff Supervising Sound Editor: Mark Auguste Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Simon H. Jones Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Mark Paterson Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Mike Prestwood Smith Sound Effects Editor: Jack Whittaker Dialogue Editor: Paul Apted Foley Artist: Peter Burgis Foley Artist: Andie Derrick Foley Mixer: Ed Colyer ADR Mixer: Mark DeSimone ADR Editor: Howard Halsall Foley Editor: Derek Trigg Dialogue Editor: Sam Auguste Casting: Susie Figgis Hairstylist: Diana Isabel Agudelo Hairstylist: Edith I. Amezcua Hairstylist: Isabel Amezcua Makeup Artist: Ann Buchanan Hairstylist: Aurora Gambelli Makeup Department Head: John E. Jackson Hairstylist: Maribel Romo Makeup Artist: Henry Vargas Wigmaker: Victoria Wood Wigmaker: Lynne Watson Co-Producer: Brantley Dunaway Movie Reviews:

[thecapedia]

Paola Turbay - PodCast: Sin Sostén

[saviochristi]

Muito em breve, vocês poderão ler Albert & Einstein e Sua Turma e Nina e... Vídeo profissional, debatido, dissertado e sondado sobre o ilustrador, artista sequencial (conhecido também como quadrinista [Brasil], [banda desenhista - Portugal e Angola]) e escritor, a ilustração, a arte sequencial (conhecida também como história em quadrinhos [Brasil], [banda desenhada - Portugal e em Angola]) e a literatura / Professional, debated, lectured, and probed video about the illustrator, sequential art (also know as cartoonist), and writer, illustration, sequential art (also known as comics), and literature / Video profesional, debatido, disertado y sondeado sobre el ilustrador, artista secuencial (conocido también como historietista) y escritor, la ilustración, el arte secuencial (conocida también como historieta) y la literatura. 

Preparem-se para receber as séries de artes sequenciais/histórias em quadrinhos/bandas desenhadas "Albert & Einstein e Sua Turma" e "Nina e Zoca"! / Get ready out to receive the sequential art/comic series "Albert & Einstein and Their Gang" and "Nina and Zoca"! / ¡Prepárense para recibir las series de artes secuenciales/historietas "Albert & Einstein y su pandilla" y "Nina y Zoca"! 

Blogger (1) & (2), Dribbble, DeviantArt (1) & (2) and Fliptru do Macroverso Ilimitado (MIL) / of the Macroverse Unlimited (MUL) / del Macroverso Ilimitado (MIL): https://saviochristi-1.blogspot.com/, https://saviochristi-mil.blogspot.com/, https://dribbble.com/saviochristi/, https://deviantart.com/saviochristi3/, https://deviantart.com/saviochristi4/ & https://fliptru.com.br/@saviochristi/. 

 Facebook, Twitter & Instagram: https://facebook.com/saviochristi/, https://twitter.com/saviochristi/ e https://instagram.com/saviochristi123/. 

Canal parceiro / Partner channel / Canal parcero: https://youtube.com/@hsama/. 

E e-mail para contato / And email for contact / Y correo electrónico para contacto: saviochristi@outlook.com.

Colaboração e agradecimentos especiais a / Collaboration and special thanks to / Colaboración y gracias especiales a: meus amigos / my friends / mis amigos, Fábio Turbay, Letícia Camila, André Martines & Leior Magri.

Revisão de texto / Text revision / Revisión de texto: Sávio Christi (eu mesmo) / (myself) / (yo mismo).

[cristinabcn]

(vía COLOMBIA: PERIODISTAS PAGADOS POR ALCALDIA DE CARTAGENA ENCUMBRAN LA GESTION DE DUMEK TURBAY)

[ocombatenterondonia]

Deputada Gislaine Lebrinha entrega computadores para escola Roberto Turbay em Ariquemes

A deputada estadual Gislaine Lebrinha (União Brasil) marcou presença, na última semana, em um evento no município de Ariquemes. Ela entregou computadores completos para compor a sala de informática da Escola Roberto Turbay. O investimento de R$ 50 mil, via emenda parlamentar, foi uma solicitação do parceiro de desenvolvimento, Marcelo Silva, para a compra dos equipamentos, que serão instrumentos…

[filmsturbay]

Paola Turbay — #paolaturbay

[norteenlinea]

“CONDECORACIÓN DIANA TURBAY” llega en su trigésima edición internacional

http://dlvr.it/T3smfc

[rk7agencia]

Salón Luis Carlos Galan Sarmiento - Congreso de la República - Condecoración Diana Turbay - Dia de la Mujer - Fenalprensa - 8 de Marzo de 2024 - Cubrimiento: CORPOBOGOTA PRENSA - https://corpobogotaprensa.wixsite.com/inicio - EPRENSA DIGITAL - www.Rk7Magazine.com - www.Rk7Agencia.net - www.EscuelaCMSR1.com - www.DirectorioCongresos.com - Redes Sociales RK7

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https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rk7agencia https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwTDjqny6lmhPT4Ud_D1WXg - Tiktok - Rk7agencia - Web - http://www.Rk7Magazine.com - Tienda Virtual - https://www.coordiutil.com/store/nanforb916c

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Rk7 Magazine -Virtual

https://issuu.com/rk7magazine1/docs/rk7_20magazine_20edic_20102_20-_2054pag_202021

[wetlandsday]

COLOMBIA - La Depresión Momposina, los ciclos del agua.

En el marco de la celebración del día mundial de los humedales 2024, el grupo GeoLimna de la Escuela Ambiental, Facultad de Ingeniería, Universidad de Antioquia ha organizado esta vez, una agenda que incluye como conferencia magistral "La Depresión Momposina: los ciclos del agua" a cargo de la profesora Dra. Sandra Turbay. A continuación se hará un conversatorio en el que se enlazarán profesores, estudiantes y público en general de las diferentes sedes de la Universidad de Antioquia, y habitantes de la ciénaga de Ayapel del INSTECED.

Country : Colombia Organizer : Universidad de Antioquia, Facultad de Ingeniería, Escuela Ambiental, Grupo GeoLimna Partners : Grupo Maso, Corpoayapel, grupo de Investigación Dinámicas Regionales, Cultura y Transformación Social U. de A., Guardianes del Mangle, insteced Ayapel