If your car broke down, or your gun jammed, if you were down to your last dime, outnumbered or just out of luck, you would want Ken around.

You wanted Ken there because he would stay calm and fix what was broken, reassure you with a healthy dose of humor and show no fear. He would listen to you carefully and tell you the truth. He would think for himself and come to his own rigorous conclusions.

He had the analytical mind of a scientist, a writer’s reverence for language, a mechanic’s intuition for moving parts, a drummer’s love of rhythm, a comedian’s instinct for the absurd and an activist’s sense of injustice.

He knew everything about Colombia and Chile and American cars, unions and Spanish curses. He cared deeply about getting something right, whether it was his own writing or someone else’s.

He always had time for other people, his intense, blue eyes gentle and sympathetic as he patiently listened to their stories and troubles.

He was immensely proud of his Beatriz and Eddie. He would quietly recount in wonder Eddie’s latest observations and interests, unwittingly revealing that his son shared his curiosity about the world and a love of nature.

He was a man in the fullest, richest sense, the embodiment of a Hemingway hero showing “grace under pressure.” It was only natural that Ken would endure his cancer with the same grace and guts.

I like to think of Ken strolling into the office on the weekend, a bandana tied around his shaven head, sweaty and content after a roller-blading session in the hot Washington sun. The last time he was at work, he was playing some of his favorite Latin tunes for us, and his delight in the music was infectious.

That childlike joy will stay with us.

Dan De Luce - AFP colleague