On Colombia’s Pacific coast, where the sea and the jungle intertwine in an eternal dance to the rhythm of an ancestral currulao, lies Bahía Málaga. It’s a corner of Colombia where the mangrove stands tall, its twisted roots rising from the salty water, weaving labyrinths of life and hope. In this landscape of mud, salt, and endless green, there are women who not only draw life from the mangroves but also give life back to them: the piangua gatherers of Bahía Málaga. The piangua is a type of mangrove clam, prized for its flavor and cultural significance. It thrives in the muddy, oxygen-poor soils of the mangroves, playing a vital role in the ecosystem by filtering water and contributing to the biodiversity of the region.

Matilde Mosquera is one of them. At 27, this young sociologist, born and raised among the waters and mangroves of La Plata, leads the Association of Women Shellfish Gatherers of Bahía Málaga. Her story is marked by the strength of the women who came before her: her mother, her six sisters — teachers, sociologists, tourism experts — and the elder women of the community, guardians of ancestral knowledge.

Since childhood, Matilde listened to the rhythmic songs of the shellfish gatherers, those choruses that accompany the long days in the mangroves. The piangua, a mollusk that clings to the roots of the mangrove, is their livelihood. Extracting it is a grueling task: five hours submerged in thick mud, boots sinking, guided by touch and memory. But gathering piangua isn’t just work; it’s a tradition that is sung, felt, and inherited.

Song:

Where does the piangua come from? The piangua comes from afar. Where does the piangua come from?

The piangua comes from afar. She comes to the estuaries. She comes to lay her eggs. She comes to the estuaries. She comes to lay her eggs. She comes to the estuaries to leave her young in the mangrove. She comes to the estuaries to leave her young in the mangrove. And if dawn breaks with rain, it’s hard for us to go out. And if dawn breaks with rain, it’s hard for us to go out. To find our food, we still have to go. To find our food, we still have to go. There’s no one to watch our children, but it’s our duty. There’s no one to watch our children, but it’s our duty. It’s a tough job that we do with love. It’s a tough job that we do with love.

The problem began about 30 years ago when the commercialization of piangua started to outpace its natural regeneration. The species began to dwindle, and with it, the livelihood of more than 11,300 families along Colombia’s Pacific coast. That’s when the elder women — wise and resilient — decided change was necessary: “It’s not enough to take the piangua; we have to protect it,” they said. And so, the seed of regeneration was planted.

Today, Matilde and the elder women of her community carry on that legacy. They’ve learned to read the mangrove, knowing when to let it rest and when it’s time to return. They only gather piangua during the ‘puja’ tides, when the water rises, and conditions are ideal. During the ‘quiebra’ tides, the mangrove rests and regenerates. It’s a vital cycle they honor, as one would care for a mother.

But regeneration isn’t only about the ecosystem. It’s also social and cultural. The women of Bahía Málaga have created new alternatives: they promote cultural tourism around the piangua, organizing tours where visitors not only learn about the extraction process but also taste this delicacy in empanadas, tamales, and pulp, bringing the tradition to the tables of Bogotá and to the heart of the Petronio Álvarez Festival.

Matilde’s vision goes beyond the piangua. She works with young people, children, and, most importantly, the elder women to ensure that ancestral knowledge is not lost. In the Community Council of La Plata, she fights for the political participation of the shellfish-gathering women, ensuring they have a voice and a say over their territory. Because, as she says, “If the mangrove dies, the community dies too.”

Bahía Málaga is not only a natural treasure but a living testament to how resilience and love for the land can transform reality. The women who plunge their hands into the mud don’t just pull out shellfish; they pull out a future, culture, and dignity.

They don’t extract from the mangrove — they give it life. And between roots and tides, their legacy continues to grow, as strong as the mangrove roots they protect. Because in Bahía Málaga, regeneration is more than a hope: it’s a reality woven by the hands of women.