Remove the paperwork so we can save lives
En el corazón de Colombia, el departamento de Santander se enfrentó en noviembre de 2020 a una verdad que las civilizaciones ribereñas han conocido siempre: el agua, acumulada con paciencia, no negocia. El fenómeno de La Niña, amplificado por el final de la temporada de huracanes del Atlántico, convirtió ríos y laderas en fuerzas que borraron caminos, vaciaron hogares y detuvieron ciudades enteras. Veintinueve municipios declararon calamidad pública no como rendición, sino como el primer acto consciente de una comunidad que elige organizarse frente a lo que no puede detener.
- El río Carare desbordó sus orillas en Cimitarra y obligó a cien familias a abandonar sus hogares con lo que pudieron cargar, convirtiendo la emergencia en algo inmediato y humano.
- Deslizamientos de tierra cortaron las vías entre Carcasí y Enciso y paralizaron el centro urbano de San Gil un sábado por la tarde, fragmentando la región en islas incomunicadas.
- Más de 500 personas resultaron afectadas en todo Santander, y el IDEAM advirtió que las lluvias no cederían, elevando la amenaza de inundaciones sobre cultivos y comunidades ribereñas.
- Veintinueve municipios activaron la figura legal de calamidad pública, permitiendo a los alcaldes mover recursos y contratar servicios de emergencia sin los frenos habituales de la burocracia.
- Las autoridades departamentales exigieron a cada municipio tener listos planes de evacuación, rutas identificadas y albergues preparados antes de que la situación alcanzara su punto crítico.
A mediados de noviembre de 2020, César García, director de gestión del riesgo de desastres de Santander, confirmó lo que muchos ya presentían: más de 500 personas habían sido afectadas por un sistema climático que no daba señales de retroceder. La combinación de La Niña y el final de la temporada de huracanes atlánticos había convertido el cielo en una fuente que no cerraba.
En Cimitarra, el río Carare se salió de su cauce y forzó la evacuación de cien familias. Más al norte, un deslizamiento borró la carretera entre Carcasí y Enciso, dejando comunidades aisladas a ambos lados. San Gil, la ciudad más grande del departamento, vio su centro detenerse un sábado por la tarde. Las autoridades emitieron alertas para cinco barrios y pidieron a los residentes permanecer en casa.
Antes estas circunstancias, veintinueve municipios de Santander declararon calamidad pública. La medida no era simbólica: bajo la ley colombiana, esta figura permite a los alcaldes contratar directamente con empresas privadas, sin licitaciones ni procesos de selección prolongados, y redirigir fondos hacia la respuesta de emergencia con una velocidad que la burocracia ordinaria no permite. García lo explicó con claridad: se trataba de retirar el papeleo para poder salvar vidas.
Sin embargo, la declaración era también una advertencia hacia adelante. El IDEAM pronosticó que las lluvias continuarían, y García hizo un llamado directo a alcaldes, bomberos, defensa civil y policía de carreteras: identificar a las familias en zonas de riesgo, trazar rutas de evacuación, preparar albergues. El campo tampoco escapaba: los cultivos en las llanuras aluviales enfrentaban la amenaza de quedar sumergidos, golpeando la base económica de la región.
Santander quedó suspendido en una emergencia que aún no era catástrofe, pero que había dejado de ser normalidad. Los ríos seguían altos, las lluvias no paraban, y veintinueve municipios esperaban, organizados y alertas, lo que pudiera venir.
The rains kept coming. By mid-November, the Colombian department of Santander was drowning—not in a single catastrophic deluge, but in the relentless accumulation of water that had no place to go. On November 15th, César García, the director of disaster risk management for Santander, stood before officials and announced what many already knew: the region was in crisis. At least 500 people had been affected by the weather system bearing down on the country, and the situation was only getting worse.
The culprit was La Niña, the climate phenomenon that had gripped South America, combined with the tail end of Atlantic hurricane season. The combination had turned the sky into a faucet that wouldn't close. In Cimitarra, a municipality in the heart of Santander, the Carare River had swollen beyond its banks. One hundred families—entire households with whatever they could carry—had been forced to abandon their homes. They were the visible casualties of a disaster that was spreading across the landscape in ways both dramatic and mundane: roads collapsing, towns cut off, daily life simply stopping.
The damage was scattered across the region in a pattern that made response difficult. Between Carcasí and Enciso, a landslide had erased the road connecting them, leaving families on either side stranded. In the sector of Capitanejo, passage became impossible. San Gil, the department's largest city, saw its urban center grind to a halt on Saturday afternoon. The municipality's officials were still tallying the damage, but they had already issued warnings to residents in five neighborhoods—La Playa, Paseo de Mango, Rojas Pinilla, and Carrera Primera—to stay alert and stay home if they could.
In response, the regional government took an extraordinary step: twenty-nine municipalities across Santander declared public calamity. The declaration was not merely symbolic. Under Colombian law, when a municipality invokes calamity status, it gains the power to act with unusual speed and flexibility. The mayor can move money directly into the disaster response fund without the usual bureaucratic delays. Contracts can be awarded to private companies without competitive bidding or lengthy selection processes. In a crisis, when every hour matters, this streamlining of procedure becomes a tool for survival.
García explained the mechanism to reporters with the precision of someone who had seen it work before. The declaration allows municipalities to "contract directly with private parties," he said, "without having to conduct auctions or abbreviated selection processes, so they can act more quickly." It was a way of saying: we are removing the paperwork so we can save lives. The money that would normally be locked in bureaucratic channels could now flow toward evacuation efforts, emergency shelters, and rescue operations.
But the declaration was also a warning. García and his team were not dealing with a problem that had already peaked. The National Institute of Hydrology, Meteorology and Environmental Studies—IDEAM, the government's weather authority—had issued a forecast that the rains would continue. The system was not moving on. It was settling in. García issued a direct appeal to every mayor in the region, to the fire departments, the civil defense units, the highway police: prepare your evacuation plans now. Identify the families living in river beds and flood-prone areas. Have routes mapped. Have shelters ready. Have supplies staged.
The agricultural impact was also becoming clear. The risk management office warned that crops planted in the lowlands and flood zones of the major rivers would likely be submerged as water levels rose. Farmers who had invested months of labor and resources faced the prospect of total loss. The crisis was not confined to the cities and towns; it was spreading into the countryside, into the fields where food was grown, into the economic foundation of the region.
As November wore on, Santander remained in a state of suspended emergency—not yet catastrophe, but no longer normal. The rains continued. The rivers stayed high. And across twenty-nine municipalities, officials worked to prepare for what might come next.
Citas Notables
We work with rescue organizations on risk mitigation and prevention. The hurricanes and La Niña have caused landslides, road damage, and flooding. We remain alert and call on municipal mayors to do the same.— César García, director of disaster risk management for Santander
The declaration allows mayors to contract directly with private parties without auctions or lengthy selection processes, so they can act more quickly.— César García
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does declaring public calamity actually change what happens on the ground?
It removes the friction. Normally, if you need to hire someone to clear a blocked road or set up a shelter, you have to post a bid, wait for responses, evaluate proposals. In a calamity, the mayor can just call someone and say "I need this done today." The money is already authorized to move.
So it's about speed, not about getting more resources?
Exactly. The resources might be the same. But the time between decision and action collapses. When families are stranded or water is rising, that matters.
The article mentions La Niña and hurricanes. Are those the same thing?
No. La Niña is a broader climate pattern—warmer water in the Pacific that shifts rainfall patterns across the hemisphere. The hurricanes are separate storms that formed in the Atlantic. But they're working together here. The La Niña pattern is keeping moisture in the air, and the hurricane remnants are delivering it as rain. It's a compounding effect.
Five hundred people affected sounds like a lot, but is it?
For a region, it depends on the population. But the real measure is what "affected" means. Some lost homes. Some lost roads. Some lost crops. The hundred families evacuated from Cimitarra—those are the ones in immediate danger. The others are dealing with damage and disruption that might take weeks to resolve.
What happens to those hundred families while they're evacuated?
The article doesn't say. That's the gap. They're out of their homes, presumably in shelters or with relatives, but the source material doesn't tell us where they're sleeping or how long they'll be displaced. That's the next part of the story.
And the farmers with crops in the flood zones?
They're watching their year's work disappear under water. No insurance mentioned, no compensation program described. Just the warning that it's coming.