The Wild South: Finding refuge in Costa Rica's quiet corner

It was 2020. The year of the rat, the year of rest, the year of reckoning. Depends on whom you ask. 

For me, it was a year of stupid travel choices. 

From my bleak communist-era apartment on the outskirts of Ljubljana, I did everything I could to stand still during Slovenia’s strict lockdown. I taught myself to draw. I studied the tarot. I tried my hand at bookbinding and adopted two cats for better company. Lord help me, I even fell prey to the great dropshipping scam of 2020. 

Caged in an echo chamber of paranoia, I did my best to “socially distance” from the conspiracy theorist (read ex-husband) living in the 100 sqm flat with me, so as not to be buried under an avalanche of canned goods and RFK Jr. manifestos. 

But from my balcony, the Julian Alps mocked me. Serrated against the skyline like the spine of a slumbering dragon, they spoke to a yearning for something feral. An untouchable magic. Relief from the tight-coil dread of my four walls. And before long, I was hatching an escape plan.

Now I probably should pause here to offer a massive, neon-signed disclaimer: In hindsight, I am fully aware that traveling during a global pandemic was objectively one of the most selfish, short-sighted things I could have done. But I was in my 20s, my frontal lobe undeveloped, my AuDHD undiagnosed, and I was a restless idiot with a very low threshold for isolation. Little did I know that I’d end up so far off the beaten track I would barely have a phone signal, let alone see another tourist.

But with very few countries open to tourism, our options were slim. 

Enter Costa Rica. 

It was never on my list of places to visit. I am not an easy, breezy beach girl; give  me lungfuls of mountain air any day. My version of hell? Sand-crusted, wet sandals. 

Thus began the most arduous travel of my life. Jobless, we sat for one last kava on the balcony. Windswept, our silent wish of well-being drifted to the top of Mt. Triglav. “Please, please let this work out.”

Thanks to a sudden border closure, the jury was still out. What should’ve been a simple one-stop flight became a multi-day odyssey through Italy and Spain, kittens in tow.

In total: six trains, two planes, two overnight stays, a lost laptop, a pet passport, our entire savings, and exactly one shoe.

Not to mention a considerable chunk of my sanity, probably left behind somewhere above the Azores while I was attempting to persuade my cats to use a collapsible litterbox in the airplane bathroom. 

After 4 days we finally made it to Costa Rica’s capital, San Jose. The only thing separating us from our new abode? A 5-hour ride to the jungle. 

Perched on the border of Panama, among the wilds of the cloud forest, sits the overlooked town of San Vito. Its lush palm groves and banana plantations give way to orderly rows of deep-green coffee bushes, seemingly drawing an invisible border between here and everywhere else. Rarely do foreigners come here; this is as Tico as it gets. 

It was mainly virgin land until the early 1950s, when Italian immigrants came to the area searching for a new life. With the assistance of the government, over 100 families built their community in dense forests, bringing with them their language, agricultural skills, religion, and a taste for coffee.

During my stay, I learned from Luis, the sole taxi driver in the area, that many locals had a particular soft spot for the 1980s. The Pan-American Highway hadn’t yet reached here, keeping the town somewhat isolated. Traveling the long road to San Jose for essentials took a sturdy 4×4 and a lot of luck. By then, the town had fully established itself as equal parts Italian and Costa Rican.  

Pasta and pizza were (and still are) commonly served next to plantains and gallo pinto. Italian and Spanish drifted effortlessly between schools and street corners. It was difficult to see where La Dolce Vita ended and Pura Vida began. 

Today, San Vito’s Italian heritage is slightly more subtle, but you’ll still find Lillian’s Pizzeria sliding doughy pies from their brick oven. 

The rental I had found online lived up to its rustic description. A refuge in the thicket of the jungle on an acre of banana trees, pineapple, bamboo, and tropical plants. The only sound here was the pulse of cicadas in the midday heat — relentless at first, but something I’d grow to miss. 

The listing promised “living in harmony with nature,” and with only chicken wire separating our kitchen window from the outside world, amity meant being gentle while shaking scarab beetles and scorpions out of my boots. 

A local warned me to always keep my eyes on the cats, as it wasn't uncommon to fall prey to poisonous snakes and frogs or to be scooped up by a crested caracara or a black hawk eagle. 

One thing more terrifying than a scorpion's sting was the delightful, daily gamble of showering at my new abode, a thrilling game of Russian Roulette where your cold shower came with the possibility of a light electrocution. 

Our weekly grocery run was a chaotic 20-minute scramble up a terrifyingly steep hill before flagging down a bus to take us 30 minutes to San Vito. In the rainy season, it was a slick, saturated deluge that was often impassable thanks to frequent mudslides. Witnessing a family of four all squeezed together on an ATV brave the sludge and the rain, complete with a baby in a vegetable crate strapped to the back, I knew I had so much to learn about resourcefulness. 

Anything more than essentials required a full-day outing with a taxi and two buses to the chaotic town of Paso Canoas on the Panama border. And yes, in case you haven’t gathered by now, I am absolutely the type of person to wait in line at immigration just to buy half-decent cat treats.  

The isolation didn’t bother me at first; in fact, it was welcome. To pay the rent, I taught English online to Chinese students. Any spare time was mostly spent drawing, perfecting the art of the Costa Rican coffee sock and snoozing in the hammock with the cats. 

And when rainy season rolled in and opened the heavens on the corrugated tin roof above us, there was nothing like it. A deafening, metallic roar that swallowed the jungle whole. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, just endured a magnificent, violent cleansing of a tropical shower. With the uncertainty of the world and my life’s trajectory weighing heavy, it was the one thing I could count on to bring me back to the present, no matter how hard the days. 

Eventually, the outside world beckoned. A dusty book inside the house told me of the fjords of Golfito on the Osa Peninsula. One of the only four tropical fjords on the planet, yet they go largely unnoticed by throngs of foreign visitors — including myself. Who knew tropical fjords existed?

But it's precisely this secluded allure that draws a distinct type of traveler. Those who understand that the true meaning of Pura Vida is not found in the manicured, gentrified resorts but rather in the raw, untamed beauty of places seldom trod. 

Dense emerald rainforests and mangroves drop directly into the sea, resulting in calm, sheltered waters absolutely teeming with marine life — a breeding ground for humpback whales, hammerhead sharks, and dolphins. An hour from Golfito, the remote coastline of Pavones is known for having the longest left-hand surf breaks in the world. But without a car, it was impossible for us to reach this forgotten corner. 

On the other side of the Osa, Drake Bay, while even more remote, was reachable by public transport — with a lot of effort. 

Another “world’s most...” spread over 41,800 acres, this area is only home to 12,000 people but houses 2.5% of the world’s ecosystem, including countless plant and insect species, four monkey species, and six big cat species. This makes it the most biologically diverse place on the planet. Night hiking in Corcovado National Park is the ultimate bragging right for those that make it here. 

Only accessible by boat or plane, it was by no means easy to reach from San Vito. But the more time I spent in the jungle, the more the resourcefulness of its locals did indeed rub off. 

It would take almost 8 hours with two bus changes to reach Sierpe, the jumping-off point for boat taxis to reach the Osa Peninsula. 

Photo by Katja Schultz on Flickr

After arriving, group of six or seven of us climb into a wobbly cerulean speedboat; the captain quizzically instructs us to keep any valuables in our bags, and away we go. The bluish haze and sweet, nauseous scent of burnt oil mark our passage into Central America’s largest wetlands. 

Our eyes dart with every point of the captain’s finger. Squirrel monkeys, kingfishers, and herons. Peering across the mudbank, someone gasps. A crocodile, perfectly still, basks under the drowsy sun. A little too close for comfort. 

As if from nowhere, breaking free from the murky canopies, the boat meets and merges into the Pacific in what was the most exhilarating, bumpy ride of my life. Whitecap foam flings in all directions as the bow of our tiny vessel buries itself into the unabating swell of the open ocean. Creaking and groaning, I swear the boat will snap as passengers grasp the slick wooden edges to brace for impact.

Any lapside belongings lurch forward into a muddy pool, and more than once I find myself lifted off the seat. Laughing manically, I shout, “I’m soooo glad we’re too broke to fly!”

Half an hour later, the sea lets out, beguiling us with glassy blues and greens. A pod of dolphins zooms through the water beside us. No amount of pixels could encapsulate this; I set my phone aside and sink into this moment. 

A sliver of emerald finally breaks the horizon, and Drake Bay's coastline comes into view. A tangled tapestry, its dense treeline is a soft and fuzzy border stitched onto the sea's edge. 

With the engine idling, our captain instructs us to get out. My fellow passengers and I exchange nervous, clueless glances. We were at least fifty or so meters from the shore, but hey, when in Costa Rica… 

The water is a brisk surprise, immediately plunging me knee-deep as I stagger through the surf, clutching my backpack high above my head. 

My grievances dissolve into the sea, swept away by the scarlet rush of macaws overhead; their joyous squawks signal a feast of almond trees where they land. Below, capuchin monkeys blur from branch to branch with lightening speed, and the humid weight of the tropics settles over me like a warm, silky veil. 

If every beach felt like this, perhaps I could bear sand-crusted sandals after all.