Camilo Torres

The rain came hard that first day, soaking through Camilo Torres’ shirt as he trudged up a muddy Colombian hillside, a heavy sack of coffee cherries slung over his shoulder. He was 15, a restless kid who’d rather ditch school than study, and this was his father’s idea of a lesson. “He wanted me to see how tough life could be—I didn’t want to be there,” Camilo recalls, his voice carrying a chuckle now, years removed from that teenage scowl.

Camilo Torres from The Cranky Hummingbird Colombia

What started as a punishment on a stranger’s coffee plantation became the spark that lit his life. Today, at 39, Camilo Torres is a first-generation farmer in Santander, Colombia, running a 14-hectare farm and a brand called The Cranky Hummingbird—proof that coffee can turn a reluctant boy into a relentless dreamer.

Camilo grew up in San Gil, a small town where coffee wasn’t a calling but a backdrop. He studied international business and tourism, dreaming of a life beyond the fields. But that rainy stint stuck with him.

“It was the best lesson I ever got—those long hours, wet days, and hard work showed me what coffee really means,”

he says, his words thick with gratitude for a father who saw what he couldn’t. By his mid-20s, he’d bought a modest farm in Santander—a rugged plot he’s nursed for 12 years into something special. It’s not big, but it’s his, and it’s become a canvas for his curiosity and grit.

The Cranky Hummingbird Farm

His farm hums with 23 exotic varieties—pink bourbons, geishas, Sudan Rume—rare beans that gleam like jewels against the region’s traditional Typicas and Castillos. Camilo’s a tinkerer, obsessed with fermentation. He experiments with honey, natural, and washed processes, chasing flavors that dance—bright citrus, deep fruit, a hint of funk.

“We’re always digging into new techniques—different methods, different fermentations—to make better coffee,”

he explains, his excitement bubbling through a farmer’s practicality. The infrastructure’s basic—tanks, tarps, a small drying patio—but he works it double-time, tweaking variables like a scientist in a lab with dirt under his nails. Five years ago, he shifted to specialty coffee, a leap that’s demanded more—more effort, more sacrifice—but he’s hooked.

“Once coffee grabs you, there’s no turning back—it’s my life now.”

That life isn’t easy. The farm’s 14 hectares bloom with coffee and forest—a nod to his soil regeneration project—but the basics lag. “We’ve got amazing plantations and forest, but when it comes to facilities, we’re still building—day by day, with what we can afford,” he admits. Eight workers live there year-round, swelling to 80 during harvest season, lugging heavy sacks from dawn to dusk. Rain or shine, they toil—five a.m. starts, late finishes, wet clothes sticking to skin. Camilo’s father wanted him to feel that grind, and he did. Now, he carries it forward, not as punishment but pride.

His work stretches beyond his plot. The Cranky Hummingbird isn’t just a brand—it’s a bridge. Camilo’s social project links 700-800 Colombian producers, reclaiming cattle-scarred land for coffee and trees. “We recover worn-out soil, plant exotic varieties—it’s regeneration, not just farming,” he says, his voice firm with purpose. He shares fermentation know-how for free, trekking to small farms where cash is tight and labs are a dream.

“Knowledge is power—if you can’t afford a course, we bring it to you. It’s how we lift each other.”

In Santander, where tech-savvy farms neighbor bare-bones ones, he’s leveling the field—one lesson at a time.

The market’s a beast, though. Camilo exports to Argentina, Canada, the US, UK, Emirates, Turkey, China, Japan—his coffee’s sweet, complex notes winning fans—but he’s fierce about Colombia too. “We’re teaching locals to love good coffee—keeping quality here, not just shipping it out,” he says. The domestic scene’s growing fast, and he’s stoking it, running a coffee shop in Barichara that pours 90% Santander beans, plus gems from Huila and Nariño. Yet, he knows the grind behind each cup—climate shifts, long droughts, heavy rains—hit small farmers hardest.

Camilo Torres

“Everyone’s fighting the same battles—weather, money, tools. Knowledge helps, but it’s still tough.”

Camilo’s no stranger to that fight. During harvest, he’s on the farm, sleeves rolled up, tweaking fermentations himself—checking tanks every two hours, rotating sleep with his crew. Off-season, he’s in the shop or on the road, consulting for tiny communities. “My day’s a whirlwind—farm, shop, teaching—it depends on the season,” he laughs. He brews what’s handy—sometimes a pour-over, sometimes just hot water and grounds when he’s with farmers who lack gear.

“If there’s no method, you improvise—the coffee’s what matters.”

Camilo Torres’s story is raw, not polished. He’s seen the disconnect—coffee lovers splurging on grinders while farmers scrape by. “You drink a cup and don’t know the sweat behind it—long days, heavy loads, wet seasons. Visit a farm, see it for yourself,” Camilo urges, his plea cutting through the noise. Big traders pay minimums, pocketing the “support farmers” hype, but Camilo’s shop pays pickers fair, with bonuses for kilos—a healthy race that keeps 80 workers coming back.

“It’s not charity—it’s respect. Coffee’s a chain, and every link counts.”

Camilo’s not chasing wealth—he’s chasing connection. From a kid dodging school to a farmer linking 800 producers in Colombia, he’s proof coffee’s more than a drink—it’s a lifeline. His call echoes: ask where your coffee’s from, push for fair trade, taste the effort. It’s not loud, but it’s real—a quiet stand for the hands that grow what we love.