By Daniela Daza and Duban Ramirez, GLFx San Rafael de Antioquía
In San Rafael, Antioquia, Colombia, a harmonious transformation has been taking place.
A new take on an age-old type of construction is emerging that seeks to conserve, restore and protect the landscape while finding ways to inhabit and remain in it. This is known as bioconstruction.
Bioconstruction, as the name suggests, is building for life – not only for the humans who inhabit them, but also for the trees that give shade, the birds that sing, the snakes that pass, the cats that hide and the communities that accompany them.
San Rafael is a leader in bioconstruction and permaculture in Colombia and across Latin America. Here, people are building tourist inns, hotels and other structures like community centers – all based on the principles of building with the natural landscape.
When you think of traditional construction materials, you might think of bamboo and earth. These organic materials have become key pillars of bioconstruction, though the two are not mutually exclusive.
One common organic material used for bioconstruction in Colombia is a type of bamboo called Guadua, which is recognized by farmers as an indicator of water sources as it tends to grow along the edges of rivers.
In popular wisdom, it is said that “whoever sows Guadua is sowing water” – in other words, this bamboo is used to protect water.
Bamboo, unlike trees, can be cut without killing the plant. Each stem is like a branch of a larger organism, and harvesting it stimulates growth rather than stopping it. Thus, cutting Guadua is more an act of pruning than felling, and that completely changes the relationship between the builder and the forest.
Bamboo is also a material that renews itself quickly and that adapts to multiple forms. With the right knowledge, it can be transformed into complex, beautiful and durable structures.
Another common building material in Colombia is a type of palm called palmicho (Prestoea acuminata). These palms grow abundantly in the landscape, reaching heights of up to 10 meters and a thickness of up to 8 centimeters.
The palmicho is resistant, easy to work with, durable and beautiful, and just like Guadua, it’s found on farms, roads and the edges of crops. For many Colombians, building with palmicho is building with what is already there – part of the memory of the landscape.
On the other hand, earth, or soil, may be humanity’s oldest building material. It has been used to build homes, temples, walls and entire cities.
Earth is thermal, acoustic, moldable, accessible and, above all, deeply symbolic. Building with earth is in many ways returning to basics – recognizing that the soil not only nourishes us but can also shelter us.
With such wonderful materials, the question shouldn’t be why some communities insist on building with them but rather why so many others do not.
Why do farmers see organic materials as symbols of poverty? Why do we reject what is efficient and sustainable in favor of more modern materials that often do not provide us with the same benefits, such as natural insulation?
Bioconstruction is an opportunity to reconcile ourselves with our landscape and to live not through imposition but with respect.
During the first half of the 20th century, the world faced a public health crisis that profoundly marked the way we live.
Tuberculosis crept between the damp, dark walls of cities, forcing architecture to adapt. The need for open, well-ventilated spaces with large inlets of light led to the birth of a new architectural language. It was then that glass, metal and reinforced concrete found their place.
They weren’t just materials – they were answers. They were symbols of health, openness and progress.
And they worked. They became the very image of modernity: shiny facades, straight lines and towers that defied gravity and time. But something happened along the way. What was once a sensible solution to a real need became a repeated formula – an imposed recipe.
These materials ceased to be an answer and became an imposition, replacing centuries-old local construction methods using organic materials. Not because they were incapable of adapting, but instead of evolving to meet modern standards, local construction methods were relegated, forgotten and even associated with poverty.
Using organic materials to build was then stigmatized as archaic and backward, as if the memory of the landscape didn’t already contain centuries of accumulated wisdom.
Ironically, what gave life to this modern architecture is killing it today. Glass is used more to decorate than to bring us closer to the landscape. We are sealed inside hermetic towers that depend on air conditioning to be inhabited.
Concrete no longer responds to a single structural need but is the mold of almost all construction, regardless of context. And metal, with its unquestionable efficiency, has often been an easy substitute for any other option, replacing it even when unnecessary.
While industrial materials like glass and metal may sound at odds with bioconstruction, they can be used in a less dogmatic type of bioconstruction with awareness and respect.
Ultimately, bioconstruction isn’t just a technique – it’s a way of being in the world. It has more to do with how we build than with what materials we build with.
If a glass structure allows the sun to enter and heat without electricity, and if a metal beam is reused from an old building and avoids unnecessary logging, perhaps they’re not too far removed from the spirit of bioconstruction after all.
It is not that these materials are enemies of bioconstruction. The problem is that we stopped designing with place in mind. The convenience that technology has brought us has made us lazy.
Why adopt a material suited to the climate when you can simply install a system that controls the temperature? Why observe the trajectory of the sun when you can keep the lights on all day? Why bother understanding the structure of bamboo when you can build walls of prefabricated blocks that everyone knows how to use?
We’ve forgotten how to use what we once knew, and in our forgetfulness, a part of us has also been lost.
So yes, perhaps it is possible to build bioconstruction with concrete, metal and glass. But not when they impose themselves on the place. Not when they erase its history. Not when they disconnect people from their environment.
Perhaps the key question to keep in mind is: are we building for life, or just to occupy space?
Sometimes, we should stop using a material not because it harms us directly but because it harms the lifeforms we live with.
For example, many construction projects in San Rafael have stopped using glass as it poses serious dangers to birds. Instead, there are now lodgings, houses, a school, restaurants, factories and yoga temples and other spaces, all made with local materials.
But bioconstruction isn’t just about going back to building with just bamboo and earth. It’s about thinking beyond ourselves. It’s about observing. Feeling. Creatively using materials to create non-toxic spaces – to create a sense of kinship with our natural environment.
Above all, bioconstruction is an open question: how can we inhabit the world without damaging it? Sometimes the answer is simple: stop imposing and start listening.
Bioconstruction goes beyond the simple use of natural materials. It’s a search for balance: the transformation of a person who possesses and destroys into a guardian who protects, respects and cares for the land.
Rather than imposing structures, it’s about engaging in dialogue with the environment. It means viewing ourselves not as conquerors of the land but as inhabitants who recognize the rhythms of a place and adapt to them.
This means we must deeply rethink our relationship with the landscape so that construction ceases to be an expression of power or domination and becomes an act of belonging and reciprocity.
Like in many other places, San Rafael has already started to embrace the values of bioconstruction. It makes you wonder: what does progress really mean?
Perhaps progress doesn’t mean newer or shinier, but more connected and adaptable. In San Rafael, we’ve seen bioconstruction with organic materials inspire deeper connection with our environment, more community participation and greater adaptability to our local climates.
Is that not real progress?
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