The enchanted car park: how a ruined multi-storey became a garden paradise loved by lizards and dog-walkers
'We behaved more like archaeologists than landscape architects,' says Edgar Mazo of Connatural, the firm behind the Parque Prado, in the working-class neighbourhood of Aranjuez. He leads me through a series of planted terraces; fountain grasses and trumpet trees sprout from where a derelict car park and abandoned homes once stood. 'You dig up the concrete, water gets into the ground, vegetation grows up, and the people come back,' he adds, speaking through a translator. 'That's natural regeneration.'
In recent decades, Medellín has been widely celebrated for its astonishing urban transformation. In the 2000s, it went from being one of the most dangerous cities on the planet, riven by murderous drug cartels, to a case study in the miraculous peace-bringing powers of architecture and landscape. Sergio Fajardo, the son of an architect who served as Medellín's charismatic mayor from 2004 to 2008, was hailed for sprinkling the city's poorest neighbourhoods with dazzling new libraries, stadiums and swimming pools.
These determinedly 'iconic' projects were enthusiastically feted on the pages of glossy design magazines, and their stories recounted in keynotes at international conferences. Impoverished hillsides were connected to a new metro system with an elegant web of cable cars and outdoor escalators, while parks dotted with expressive architect-designed canopies sprang up across the city. The dramatic fall in crime during Fajardo's term was largely credited to this vision of 'social urbanism', and the increase in the amount of public space per citizen.
But the Medellín miracle has since lost some of its sparkle. Take the Biblioteca España, one of the flagship projects, designed by Colombian star architect Giancarlo Mazzanti. It stands as a striking cluster of chiselled concrete boulders, rising from the hillside in the formerly no-go barrio of Santo Domingo. But it has been shuttered since 2015, due to structural defects. Or look at the outdoor escalators, which snake their way up the slopes of Comuna 13, one of the most notorious gangland neighbourhoods. Built to improve access for residents of the steep hillside, they have now become an overrun tourist attraction for Pablo Escobar-themed slum tours (which are often run in cahoots with the gangs). With more than 25,000 visitors riding the moving stairs here each week, locals barely have space to use them.
Mazo's work takes a markedly different approach from the 00s penchant for spectacle. When he was asked to look at the sloping half-hectare site in Aranjuez, which was home to a rundown car park and six boarded-up houses, abandoned for more than a decade, there was an existing plan to raze everything and replace it with a park traversed by a big zigzagging ramp. It looked like a hangover from the earlier lust for shape-making, something that might photograph well from a helicopter.
Instead, Mazo and his team decided to keep most of what was already there. Almost 70% of the material on-site remains, albeit in a new form. Walls and floor slabs were chiselled from the two-storey parking structure, and the rubble used to fill the basements of the houses, with soil packed on top. The buildings' roof timbers were reclaimed and used to make benches, while the landscape was shaped in such a way that rainwater is retained, meaning that no artificial irrigation is needed. The team even collected seeds from the plants that had sprung up on the plot, so they could be scattered around the new park after the project's construction – allowing the natural colonisers back in.
The project was built during the pandemic for a cost of just $1.5m (£1.1m), and the lockdowns allowed time for the plants to establish, without the threat of being trampled by visitors. Five years on, the planting has reached a level of maturity that makes this urban oasis seem like it's always been there – a rare fruition of the Covid-era prophecies of nature reclaiming the city.
The result is a beguiling place, where the sloping topography is mediated not by a great switchback ramp, but by a series of stepped terraces and slopes that form little outdoor rooms. The former car park's concrete frame makes for an imposing armature at the centre of the park, supporting a raised steel walkway and framing a series of semi-enclosed spaces beneath it. Reclaimed bricks and stacked roof tiles serve as retaining walls, creating a rugged backdrop to lush clumps of grasses and palms. Gabion cages filled with rocks and rubble line water retention ponds, and provide platforms for seating. A sandy clearing down below makes space for ballgames and events, while park-goers can watch the action from the terraced decks above, and enjoy a grandstand view across the sprawling city and its seven hills.
'When people first colonised this valley,' says Mazo, 'they used to climb up to the top of the hills to communicate with each other. The park now becomes part of that system, giving people an elevated view to connect with others.'
Crucially, there's a space for everyone here – from elevated walkways, to quiet shrub-lined reading areas, to seating tucked away from prying eyes. The sense of fragmentation, as well as the level changes, allow different social groups to coexist. On a Tuesday afternoon, most of these different compartments have their own distinct visitors. A student sits cross-legged on a bench by a giant monstera plant, drawing, while a couple canoodle on the deck above him. A solo pensioner takes in the view from the top, enjoying the shade of a kapok tree. Dog-walkers come and go, while a pair of middle-aged guys get stoned in one corner, not very well hidden behind fluffy fronds of purple grass.
Parque Prado was one of the pilot projects of the city's Plan de Renaturalización, an initiative launched in 2016 to introduce 120 neighbourhood parks (20 of which Mazo was commissioned to design) and 30 green corridors, ripping up asphalt and concrete to improve groundwater infiltration, and planting urban orchards to mitigate the effects of climate crisis. In some areas, temperatures have reduced by as much as 3C, while several species of birds, lizards and frogs have returned, which hadn't been seen in the city for decades. There have been harder-to-measure social impacts, too.
'Some local residents were initially worried about the park,' says Mazo. 'The area had become known for drug addicts and prostitution, and they thought it would only make things worse.' The opposite has happened. By creating space for different walks of life to mingle, 'people are mixing here without any problems', he says. 'Some people assume that a completely flat, open surface with no vegetation means you can have more surveillance,' he adds. 'But if you have different shapes, levels and conditions, people can identify with the space, feel more comfortable and take care.'
Local residents have taken such ownership over the park that they voluntarily clean it up and have started doing some guerrilla gardening – planting seeds for the space to take on a life of its own.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Guardian
6 days ago
- The Guardian
‘My wife reminds me to bring bear spray': a day in the life of a wildlife ranger
We're often quick to celebrate when natural land is saved: a rainforest spared, a vital habitat conserved. But what happens if there's nobody there to protect it? That's a problem international conservation charity World Land Trust was aiming to solve when it set up its Keepers of the Wild programme, which provides salaries for rangers on partner reserves all over the world. 'You need people there every day,' says Dan Bradbury, director of brand and communications at World Land Trust. He points out that those working as keepers of the wild are not only rangers but often firefighters, community organisers, medics, animal rescuers, research assistants and general guardians. Through the programme, those living in nearby villages are hired to protect natural heritage. Some are even former hunters. 'They become amazing guides, because they know the forests,' says Bradbury. He offers the example of a Colombian bird hunter who once used his talent for mimicking bird calls to 'whip away birds and take them to market'. Now employed as a keeper of the wild, he uses the same bird call, but for good, as a bird guide in the reserve. 'They're the peacemakers there, on the frontline of conservation,' says Bradbury. Located in Armenia, you'll find the Caucasus Wildlife Refuge, created in 2011 by World Land Trust's partner organisation, Foundation for the Preservation of Wildlife and Cultural Assets (FPWC). There, Keepers of the Wild-funded rangers Boris Vanyan and Manuk Manukyan take on arduous and often perilous work as part of an award-winning ranger team. On a given day, they could deal with wildfires, armed intruders or animals injured by landmines. But, as they explain, the work comes with plenty of pinch-me moments among the leopards and lynxes, too. Here's how Vanyan and Manukyan spend a typical day at work. Vanyan: Before my workday even begins, we start planning. Friends call – shepherds or other community members – who may have seen something or heard something we should check out. Sometimes we finalise plans the day before. Vanyan: Our clothes are light, with long sleeves for sun protection. Sturdy shoes are a must – there are many poisonous snakes. I pack binoculars, trap-cameras, food, a knife, and a first aid kit. I'll even take needles in case something major happens and we need stitches. My wife reminds me to bring bear spray. Manukyan: Some people say that when you're out in the wild, you should have a weapon in case a bear attacks. But there is no reason for a bear to attack if you know not to go into his den, or near his cubs. I'll usually just pack trap-cameras, plus camera batteries and memory chips. Vanyan: Depending on the plan, I take horses, walk or drive. That depends on the landscape. Our hours are according to wildlife, not what is comfortable to us – if the wildlife wakes up at 5.30am, we move with their schedule. Manukyan: I wish I could start as early as 5am, but instead I go to the village to collect colleagues and guide them to the eco centre, where we have greenhouses, lodges and a bear rehabilitation centre. Vanyan: There are three main threats to wildlife in this area. First, illegal poaching. Then there's wildfires, which can mean animals migrate to areas that are dangerous to them, or they lose their habitat. The third is the many landmines on the border of Armenia and Azerbaijan. Crossing the mines, an animal could lose a limb, or could even be blown up. Manukyan: Recently, we had fires in three different places. A storm had begun destroying the juniper forests – the lightning was setting these ancient trees on fire. They have oil inside, and they burn like hell. But we have horses trained that can carry water up the mountain, and, together with the other rangers, the fire department and the state reserve, we managed to distinguish all three fires. Vanyan: Usually if I work close to home, I'll go home for lunch, but I'm reluctant to take a break like this, because being in nature is the most relaxing thing. Vanyan: I also manage tree planting for the reforestation programme in degraded areas of the Caucasus Wildlife Refuge – organising villagers, showing them where and how to plant. Sometimes we have to negotiate with locals who let their cattle roam, as they can eat the young trees, which can be a challenge. Vanyan: In the evening, the mammals come with their youngsters to the wetland. I'll hide somewhere near a watering hole and wait for them to turn up – golden hour is the best time to film the animals, such as the bezoar goats, with a very high zoom. Manukyan: Animals often recognise me. For a while there was a Eurasian lynx – very risk-averse animals – which I would spot, only from far away. One time we stood, just four or five metres apart, just looking at each other for a long time. I tried to take photos, but the clicking sound made him run off. I've observed him many times, in many places. There is also a herd of bezoar goats who pose when I'm coming to check the trap-camera. Vanyan: We recently spotted two different Caucasian leopards as far as 3km from one another, which is a very good sign – it shows that the leopards have enough prey to come and stay, to feel secure in the area and to roam. We also monitor for three species of vultures, and observe lots of bears. Manukyan: I'll drop off my team and travel home. But I have a live camera on my phone, and I'm constantly checking it to see if there's something alarming. One time, close to New Year's Eve, we spotted a torchlight on the top of the mountain, and identified that it was people – with weapons. We immediately drove to the mountain – a 90-minute drive. I called the police and the rangers from the state reserve, and, of course Boris, and together, we encircled them. It turned out they were not armed with hunting guns, but military guns. Their guns were taken and there was a police case – it took the whole night, until 4am or 5am. This type of thing is quite usual – everything depends on the needs of nature. Manukyan: Sometimes I don't see my three children for a few days at a time, because I come home after they go to bed, and leave before they wake up. When that happens, they demand I organise a barbecue! Vanyan: My son is nine, and he's very proud. He wants to learn about everything, to see all the materials I'm gathering. Maybe someday he will come with me, maybe he'll continue my journey. Manukyan: The real richness, the real value of this country is its biodiversity. It's very important to understand that the love of a country starts from nature – from rivers to trees, and forests to wildlife. Everything we are keeping now is not only for us, but for future generations. You can support Rangers like Manuk Manukyan and Boris Vanyan by donating to World Land Trust's Keepers of the Wild Programme
The Independent
28-07-2025
- The Independent
After taking back land in Colombia, Indigenous prepare their youth to safeguard it
Indigenous Nasa children are gently splashed with water using a leafy branch — a ritual meant to protect them and symbolically 'open the path' — before setting off with wooden signs they had painted with messages like 'We were born to protect the environment' and 'Peace, please.' Wearing protective gloves, the children nail their signs to trees lining a dirt road still used at times by armed groups for drug trafficking, as they collect trash from land their families reclaimed from vast industrial sugarcane plantations in Colombia's conflict-scarred southwest. This is no ordinary schoolyard activity. It's a quiet act of defiance — and a hands-on lesson in protecting land and culture. Just beyond the reclaimed land of the Indigenous López Adentro reserve, near the town of Caloto, a spray-painted warning on a wall orders drivers to keep their windows rolled down or risk being shot. It's to allow armed groups to see inside. Roadside banners declare support for dissident factions of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), the leftist guerrilla group that signed a peace agreement with the government almost a decade ago. Violence in Cauca — and many other regions — has intensified since the 2016 peace deal, as criminal groups and FARC breakaway factions fight for territory and control over lucrative drug trafficking routes once held by the demobilized rebels. The children's 'semillero' — a weekend school where Indigenous youth are nurtured like seeds — prepares the next generation to protect their ancestral land. More than a classroom, it's a space for learning resistance, environmental care and cultural pride. Their work echoes a broader community effort to restore damaged territory and preserve identity in a region still marked by conflict. Daniela Secue, a 26-year-old coordinator and leader of the semillero, said such training is essential as young people face so many challenges in their homeland. 'Without alternatives, some end up drawn to armed groups. But here, we teach them to protect the land through respect and care — not conflict,' Secue said. 'We want them to learn our history and know they have a role in defending our territory. This is their inheritance.' Reclaiming ancestral land In 2019, dozens of Nasa families forcibly reclaimed nearly 350 hectares (about 865 acres) of land in northern Cauca that had been planted with sugarcane for years. The industrial monoculture had exhausted the soil and polluted water supplies with agrochemicals. The families' removal of sugarcane marked a turning point — transforming degraded fields into plots for corn, rice, cassava, beans and plantains, alongside areas for forest regeneration and small-scale livestock raising. The children wrapped up their sign-posting near an old finca, a rural estate once owned by a powerful sugarcane landlord. Faded FARC graffiti still marks the outer walls, a remnant of years of armed conflict. But today, a flag bearing the red and green of the Nasa people flies near it. The building, now crumbling and abandoned, is a dilapidated testament to the violence this land has endured. Children play on old sandbags left behind by the military during a recent occupation meant to repress the community's efforts to reclaim the territory. The families' 2019 takeover of the territory saw them arriving with machetes and cutting down the vast sugarcane crops, which are used to produce sugar, ethanol and panela — a traditional unrefined cane sugar often sold in solid blocks and widely consumed across Colombia. Colombia has taken steps to empower Indigenous groups. But land takeovers like the one in López Adentro have sparked controversy, with critics — especially from agribusiness and government sectors — arguing that such occupations violate property rights and risk fueling further conflict. While Indigenous communities describe the actions as a legitimate reclamation of ancestral land, the national government has warned that land reform must follow legal channels and condemned unauthorized occupations. Ecological changes after sugarcane Members of the Indigenous guard say birds and other wildlife have returned to the area that was once only sugarcane. Yet the struggle is far from over. The community has endured forced evictions, military occupation, and threats from paramilitary groups. One resident, Carmelina Camayo, 49, remembers when the soldiers occupied the old finca for three years. Though the military withdrew in 2024, the threat of eviction looms once more, with the landowner preparing new legal action. 'We didn't survive all this to give up now,' Camayo said. 'We have to continue resisting.' The semillero's work embodies that resistance. Secue said it's not only about healing the land but reclaiming identity. Many former semillero members have grown to become leaders within the Indigenous Guard, protecting both people and territory. 'In a region where youth are vulnerable to violence and recruitment, we offer a different path — one of responsibility, belonging and connection to our ancestors,' Secue said. For families like Secue's and Camayo's, hope rests on the next generation. 'We recover land so our children can eat from it and live on it,' Camayo says. 'Even when we are gone, they will know what they belong to.' ___ The Associated Press' climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from multiple private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP's standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and funded coverage areas at
Daily Mail
20-07-2025
- Daily Mail
Heartbreaking final words of young girl trapped in mudflow for 60 hours
'Mummy, I love you very much'. These were the devastating last words of 13-year-old Omayra Sanchez, who died a slow and agonising death while the world watched from their television screens. For nearly three days, the school girl remained trapped in the wreckage of her family home after Colombia's Nevado del Ruiz volcano erupted on November 13, 1985 - unleashing a wall of mud that wiped the entire town of Armero off the map. The teen spent 60 hours trapped from the waist down under the cement-like lahar, while emergency services worked tirelessly to free her. But her tragic plight quickly captivated the world, after Red Cross rescue workers were forced to give up their efforts to help her when it became apparent that they would not be able to give her life saving care. Rescuers, photographers and journalists spent Omayra's final moments with her, taking it in turns to comfort her and keep her company, bringing her fizzy drinks and sweets. The tragedy was heavily documented, with harrowing videos and images of Omayra reaching households across the world. Her last words are believed to have been caught on camera, after Colombian broadcaster RCN aired a video of Omayra showing her with bloodshot eyes as she remained submerged in the muddy water. Addressing her mother, a nurse who had travelled to the capital Bogota for work before the disaster unfolded, Omayra said: 'Pray so that I can walk, and for these people to help me. 'Mummy, I love you very much, daddy I love you, my brother, I love you'. After 60 hours, Omayra's hands went white and her eyes turned black, and not long after, she died. On her third and final day, rescue workers say Omayra began to hallucinate, telling bystanders she was worried about being being late for her maths exam. She also told those keeping her company to go home so that they could rest. After her death, it was found that her aunt's arms were tangled around Omayra's legs. But it was one particular image of Omayra, holding onto life as rescuers tried to free her body from the mud, that became emblematic of the tragedy and continued to capture the world's attention in the days after the disaster. French photo-journalist Frank Fournier captured her final moments in a heartbreaking photograph, which went on to win the World Press Photo of the year in 1986. Fournier received backlash from public, with several questioning why he didn't help Omayra as she took her last breaths. But in an interview with the BBC, the French photographer spoke about how it was impossible to save her and defended his decision to take pictures of her before her death. 'There was an outcry - debates on television on the nature of the photojournalist, how much he or she is a vulture. But I felt the story was important for me to report and I was happier that there was some reaction; it would have been worse if people had not cared about it. 'I am very clear about what I do and how I do it, and I try to do my job with as much honesty and integrity as possible. I believe the photo helped raise money from around the world in aid and helped highlight the irresponsibility and lack of courage of the country's leaders.' 'There was an obvious lack of leadership. There were no evacuation plans, yet scientists had foreseen the catastrophic extent of the volcano's eruption. He also recalled her final moments, explaining how 'dawn was breaking and the poor girl was in pain and very confused. 'When I took the pictures I felt totally powerless in front of this little girl, who was facing death with courage and dignity. She could sense that her life was going.' Fournier added: 'People still find the picture disturbing. This highlights the lasting power of this little girl. I was lucky that I could act as a bridge to link people with her. It's the magic of the thing,' Speaking about Omayra, Fournier recalled that the girl was 'an incredible personality'. 'She spoke to the people trying to save her with utmost respect, telling them to go home and rest and then come back'. Omayra lived with her father, younger brother and aunt at the time of the tragedy, all of whom died instantly after being swallowed up by the deadly lahar. Her mother Maria Aleida Sanchez had travelled to Bogota to work as a nurse, who helplessly watched on from the capital as her daughter's state declined. Thirty years after her daughter's death, Maria spoke fondly of her daughter in a 2015 interview. 'Omayra loved studying. She was very special to me, and she adored her brother. She had her dolls, but she hung them on the wall. She didn't like playing with dolls and was dedicated to her studies'. The volcano, that overlooks the town of Armero in eastern Colombia, had been dormant for 69 years, and so residents and authorities didn't fret much about the possibility of an eruption, nicknaming it the 'sleeping lion'. Scientists had warned of a deadly eruption for months, but no response plan was put in place. When the Nevado del Ruiz erupted, it melted part of its snowcap, creating a 150-ft-high wall of mud that swept down the Lagunilla River. About 23,000 of Armero's estimated 28,000 residents died or went missing as the mudslide pulled trees from their roots and enveloped entire homes. Another 2,000 people were killed or disappeared on the opposite side of the volcano. It took relief workers 12 hours to reach Armero after the devastating eruption, which meant victims who had sustained serious injuries were already dead. The town, once known as 'the white city' was littered with fallen trees, human bodies and piles of debris. Armero has since remained a ghost town after its surviving inhabitants relocated to the nearing towns of Guayabal and Lerida. What is left of Armero are destroyed buildings, vehicles and cemeteries to commemorate the thousands of lives that were lost.
