On Colombia’s shorelines, Afro communities are watching the ocean claim homes, roads, and ancestral fishing grounds as the sea level rises inexorably. The change is not a distant scientific forecast; it is happening now, reshaping daily life. And yet, amid the rising waters, these communities are not abandoning their territories. They are finding ways to stay, even if it means staying differently.
The science of rising sea levels
Globally, oceans are climbing for two main reasons: as seawater warms, it expands, and as glaciers and polar ice sheets melt, more water flows into the seas. But in Colombia, local factors magnify the threat. Human interventions — such as highway construction, port dredging, and river damming — have reduced the sediment that naturally rebuilds deltas and beaches. Mangroves that once absorbed storm surges have been cut back. Together, these changes make the coast more fragile.
Researchers warn that under worst-case emissions scenarios, the country could see more than a meter of sea-level rise before the century ends. That would put thousands of square kilometers of territory at risk, including major population centers and fragile ecosystems. At this point, local geography and human activity determine the scale of impacts in Colombia. For Afro-Colombian communities that rely on fishing and tourism, the consequences are already dire. It means not only the physical loss of land but also the erosion of cultural continuity.
Buenaventura: Colombia’s Pacific gateway under pressure
On the Pacific coast, Buenaventura is both Colombia’s busiest port and the jumping-off point for whale-watching excursions in Bahía Málaga – on Colombia’s Pacific Coast, in the department of Valle del Cauca. It handles nearly 40% of the nation’s foreign trade and brings tens of thousands of visitors each year to nearby communities like Juanchaco, Ladrilleros, and La Barra.
But the shoreline around these villages is eroding at an alarming pace. In Juanchaco, waves have consumed more than 100 meters of beach and placed another 800 meters in jeopardy. La Barra has lost over half its inhabited territory. Since the middle of 2024, authorities estimate that at least 3,000 families across the three towns have been directly affected by flooding, collapsed homes, and damage to public infrastructure.
One of the main drivers is a phenomenon locals call puja — powerful fortnightly tides that batter the coast. In Juanchaco alone, these high waters have destroyed more than 20 houses and left dozens more uninhabitable. Residents have stacked sandbags and dug channels in a last-ditch attempt to slow the sea, but many have already shifted to higher plots of land. In response, the governor of Valle del Cauca declared a public emergency last August, underscoring the seriousness of the crisis.
“Every week the water comes closer. The sandbags help for a while, but they’re not a solution. Families are losing everything,” says marine biologist and community leader Jesus Hernando Gamboa in an interview to The Guardian. Gamboa has turned to hydroponic farming as a way to promote food security in the region.
Tourism and tradition as tools of survival for Afro communities on Colombia’s Pacific Coast
Despite the losses, communities are refusing to abandon their land. Instead, they are reorganizing. Families are relocating within their territories to safer elevations while building new livelihoods around tourism. Community councils across Bahia Malaga have worked for years to co-manage the national park, organizing responsible whale-watching, training local guides, and creating standards to protect both nature and culture.
The results are tangible. In 2024, Buenaventura’s tourism office recorded more than 62,500 visitors during the whale season, generating an estimated 43 billion pesos (roughly US$10.5 million) in revenue. Those funds sustain family incomes, help finance coastal defenses, and allow some residents to stay rather than migrate to the city.
For boat operator Herlin Caicedo, tourism has become a lifeline, even as the tides creep closer. “My house is sometimes surrounded by water,” he says. “There are days when I need a boat just to get to the store. But this is still my home.”
Others preserve culture through traditional foods and drinks. Entrepreneur Adela Mosquera produces viche, a sugarcane-based spirit rooted in Afro-Pacific identity. “Our heritage is what keeps us here,” she explains. “Tourists don’t just come for the whales — they come to learn about who we are.”
National response and what’s at stake
While community tourism and grassroots adaptation offer hope, they cannot replace national action. Coastal infrastructure is deteriorating faster than local councils can repair it, and the economic cost is rising.
Juanchaco’s pier, the only entry point for supplies and passengers, has already been damaged, making transport more expensive and public services harder to deliver. Internal roads are collapsing, further isolating the area. If piers and access roads collapse completely, the very tourism that sustains these families could vanish.
Colombia’s disaster management agency has acknowledged the need for long-term solutions. Proposals range from artificial reefs and seawalls to beach restoration and stricter land-use planning along vulnerable coastlines. Experts say a combination of “hard” and “soft” measures will be necessary but implementing them will require political will and substantial financing.
Every meter of shoreline lost raises the stakes for families, businesses, and cultural survival. If erosion continues unchecked, entire communities may be forced to resettle — not by choice but by necessity.
Experts warn that without coordinated planning, families will eventually be forced to relocate outside their ancestral territories, a move that would fracture not just communities, but centuries of cultural continuity.
Eroding villages, collapsing homes: how Afro communities are reinventing life amid rising sea levels in Colombia
For now, the people of Bahia Malaga are striking a balance. They rebuild wooden hostels on safer ground, serve ‘encocado’ (fish in coconut sauce) to visitors, and guide travelers through mangrove forests and waterfalls. These acts are more than economic strategies; they are declarations of belonging.
Rather than surrender to the ocean, Afro-Colombian communities on the Pacific are negotiating with it, moving slightly inland while keeping traditions alive. Their determination illustrates a broader truth, adaptation is not just about surviving climate change, but about preserving culture, memory, and the right to remain in place.
Even as the sea steadily reshapes their towns, no doubt that Afro-Colombian families are finding creative ways to transform hardship into continuity. Some households are also experimenting with floating gardens to secure food supplies despite salinized soils, while others are reviving artisanal boatbuilding to meet the needs of tourism and daily transport as roads vanish.
Women’s collectives are turning kitchens into cultural classrooms, teaching visitors how to prepare ancestral dishes and passing recipes to younger generations at risk of migrating away. Musicians and storytellers are incorporating the rising tides into songs and oral traditions, ensuring that resilience itself becomes part of the cultural archive. In this way, adaptation is not only defensive — it is generative, producing new livelihoods and narratives that allow communities to remain rooted in place even as the ocean redraws the map.
As seas rise, Colombia faces a choice: whether to let vulnerable coastal cultures fade with the tides, or to support their resilience so they can continue to thrive on the frontlines of a changing ocean.