2008 - The first pressure point

In Panama, we came to see our projects as pressure points within a human system—like the body, when you apply pressure in one area, it can set off reactions elsewhere, sometimes causing harm where you least expect it.

author

KRISTIN MORALES, LEED BD+C
FOUNDER / PRINCIPAL DESIGNER

IVAN MORALES
FOUNDER / PRINCIPAL DESIGNER

House site (photo taken in 2006) - on the left you can see the former aerial landing strip

It was noon, and two large vultures circled overhead like they were sizing us up. We were waist-deep in grass, sweating, swatting bugs, and wondering—do snakes live in open fields? Because if they did, we were prime targets. We could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs below—loud, steady, and close—but we had no sense of direction. The ocean was just beyond the thick brush lining the cliff’s edge, but completely hidden from view. It was dry season, and we were surrounded by 10 hectares of tall, brown, crackling grass—brittle underfoot and hot to the touch—that had grown tremendously since our last visit six months earlier. We were disoriented and wandering in circles, with nothing to guide us but a memory of a landmark we could no longer find. If we were starting to feel like vulture fodder, it was because we kind of were.

We were trying to find one of two reference points to mark the layout for AMA Estancia: either a lone, twisted Nance tree (Byrsonima crassifolia) we had seen on a previous visit—or the outline of an old, overgrown World War II landing strip. Both had once been clear. Now, both were gone. The tree was somewhere beyond the brush. The airstrip, if it was still visible at all, was buried under tall, dry, crackling grass. The ocean was literally in front of us, but we couldn’t see it. After a few turns, it became clear we were walking in circles. Frustration set in fast.

We had come that day to mark the layout of AMA Estancia. Instead, we realized the only thing getting measured was how long it would take to find someone to mow the grass. Ten hectares of it. Waist-high. Dry. Endless. It was less like surveying a building site and more like being trapped inside a hay-colored maze designed by nature to humble architects.

It was our first day onsite, and we were optimistic. New Yorkers to our core, we believed in plans A, B, and C—and had maybe half of plan D sketched on the back of a bar napkin. We were trained to expect the unexpected. In New York, that usually meant navigating difficult personalities and bureaucratic delays: a contractor insisting on a change order for demolition clearly included in the contract, or an electrician walking off the job over a perceived slight during a punch list review. On one project, we visited a non-union job site run by a contractor with a questionable reputation and found several workers playing dominoes in a stairwell, collecting overtime while avoiding the work altogether. We were used to managing unpredictable dynamics—but not from non-humans.

Nance tree in question - Tree was struck by lighting 4 years later

Example of proper Fencing

anticipate being tested by the land itself: by heat, vultures, and ten hectares of shoulder-high grass we couldn’t see our way through.

As we trudged back to the car in defeat, we were greeted by a gang of cows. Behind them came a man on horseback, galloping toward us and yelling. Not ideal. Apparently, the property wasn’t properly fenced and his cows had wandered off. We didn’t quite understand how this had suddenly become our fault—but eager not to start a turf war with the neighbors, we promised to fix the fences. Never mind that we had no idea how to fix a fence. We hadn’t been hired to tend the land, nor did we have any contacts, crew, or staff to help us do it. We later learned that during the dry season, it’s common for local farmers to move their cattle along public roads in search of fresh grass. With little forage available elsewhere, cows will eagerly follow the scent of high grass—and it’s up to each landowner to properly fence their property to prevent cattle from wandering into neighboring lands.

With no local network and no clear plan, we started from scratch. We asked around in town, made introductions at the hardware store, and followed word-of-mouth recommendations that led us to the handful of people in the area who knew how to build a gate, fix a post, or operate a machete like a scalpel. There was no crew waiting in the wings, no contractor to call. We pieced it together one person at a time—borrowing tools, learning names, and slowly building trust. It wasn’t efficient, but it was real. And somewhere between fixing that first fence and clearing the first path, the project stopped being just a house and started becoming something else entirely.

“Mowing and fencing—this is manageable,” we told ourselves, brushing grass off our clothes and dignity. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

That was over a decade ago. At the time, we thought we were making a small gesture to calm an angry cowboy. In reality, we were making our first real commitment to the land—land we’d soon realize wasn’t supposed to be buried in dry, brittle grass in the first place.
Later, we learned this had once been a dry tropical forest—rich with biodiversity, shaded canopies, and home to more than just vultures and snakes. The grass that overwhelmed us had replaced an entire ecosystem that once supported deer, monkeys, birds, and pollinators we had yet to see.

Kristin walking on the field after grass was cut

“ AMA Estancia taught that good architecture isn’t just about a building —it’s about understanding ecosystems and the dialogue between them.
”

Nature, as we also learned, grows back fast. Even faster in the tropics. What we thought might be an occasional trim turned into a full-time, never-ending negotiation with vines, grass, mold, termites, and roots that could break concrete like it was paper. The maintenance was relentless. It didn’t take long before we understood that “man versus nature” wasn’t a metaphor—it was Tuesday.
And over time, we began to see that it didn’t have to be a battle. The goal wasn’t to conquer the land—or buy cows to keep nature at bay—but to understand it. To work with it. If “man versus nature” had defined the past, maybe the future was about balance—designing in ways that supported restoration, resilience, and reciprocity.

Looking back, that day was our first real pressure point—not the architectural kind, where pushing on one spot reveals stress in another part of the building, but a contextual one. A moment where place, ecology, responsibility, and design collided. What began as a site visit became a reckoning with everything surrounding the work: the land, the community, the climate, and our own assumptions. We weren’t just building a house—we were stepping into a relationship with a landscape that demanded more than a house. It asked us to listen, to adapt, and ultimately, to change. We had to reconsider the impact that the construction would have on the environment—not just minimizing harm, but improving it. The work ahead had to contribute, restore, and leave the land better than we found it.