September 24, 2023, Costa Rica. I was sad to leave Ma and Eli, but I was running out of time with the rental car. Diego at Alamo had generously given me an extra day when I asked if they could compensate me for the six hours I’d lost earlier. After a hearty breakfast—some of which I saved for later—I wrote a glowing review in English for their restaurant and updated their Google listing. Previously, it had simply said they were always closed and only served small dishes—not exactly inviting. I translated my review into Spanish and read it to them. They were thrilled. I encouraged them to start asking guests for reviews, since they hadn’t received any yet. I wrote it in English because most English-speaking travelers rely on reviews when choosing where to go—especially since the restaurant is tucked two miles off the main road at the end of a windy gravel path.

I wanted to give something back, so I handed Machita the 30,000 colones (about $60) I had left. She’d mentioned they were paying off three loans their son had taken out—about $10,000 total—with monthly payments around $400. It might not sound like much, but for farmers living hand to mouth, that’s a heavy burden. Business had been painfully slow. They opened on Easter, just six months ago, and now it’s the low season. With no reviews, they’re unlikely to attract many new customers.

Saying goodbye was hard. Their granddaughters were getting guitar lessons when I left—apparently there’s a teacher in town. I don’t know how they afford it. I stopped for one last cuppa Chino around 10:30 a.m. and stayed until about 11:45 before setting off on the adventurous drive to Quepos. I had decided to take an alternate route rather than the one recommended to Parrita. It turned out to be 30 miles of dirt road—hair-raising at times. I was relieved when I finally got through.

At first, the cliffs were lined with coffee plants. As I descended, the landscape shifted to jungle, and by the time I reached the bottom, it was mostly cattle ranches. I passed signs warning not to stop due to rockfall. Given the landscape, I wasn’t planning on it anyway, but good to know. At one point, I saw a man next to his truck and asked if the road went through to Quepos. He said yes, which reassured me.

After what felt like forever, I reached the valley floor. In both Panama and Costa Rica, flat land is often cleared for cattle. Once in Quepos, I was excited to find natural peanut butter—which had been elusive everywhere else except for a brand called Tosto that made me sick. I explored the town center, which I hadn’t done previously because Russ hadn’t wanted to stop after visiting Manuel Antonio Park.

I considered walking around, but when I noticed some vagrants near my car, I decided to park closer to the beach. I followed the wide river out to a public beach. It was beautiful—similar to Manuel Antonio, but rockier and shorter. People were swimming, snorkeling, even spearfishing. I was tempted to swim but hadn’t brought my suit.

I wandered into the upscale marina area, clearly designed for the yachting crowd—bars, restaurants, ice cream shops, and a chic water-sports gear store. Then I returned to the narrow streets of downtown, weaving through alleyways. At one point, I passed a lively community hall where people were playing bingo. It seems to be a popular Sunday pastime in Costa Rica. The crowd was surprisingly rowdy—definitely not your average bingo vibe.

After satisfying my curiosity, I drove the six miles toward Manuel Antonio and stopped at a scenic overlook near a police checkpoint. I grabbed a slice of pizza and later checked out El Avión, a sprawling restaurant complex built around an old airplane fuselage. It includes multiple bars, restaurants, and a hotel. I walked a rainforest trail on the property and heard howler monkeys overhead. I quickly threw my backpack over my head—howlers have a habit of throwing things, including feces.

When walking in the forest, I always scan the ground for snakes. I’m deathly afraid of them—ironic, considering I’m a biologist. The fear likely stems from childhood. My babysitter’s son kept snakes and let them loose in the house. We’d find them in cupboards or bathrooms—always a surprise, and that’s what terrified me most.

I inquired at the hotel about room prices and found one for just $63. It was below the breakfast area, and the clerk warned I might hear early risers. I joked, “Only if they’ve had a few espressos.” I let her know I was staying with Russ in Ojochal but thanked her and said I’d be in touch if I returned. It was probably a low-season special; the town was nearly empty of tourists.

Later, I visited a beautiful restaurant overlooking the sea and met the chef-owner—clearly a skilled cook. I eventually drove to the public beach and parked for free just before sunset. I walked along the shore and took some lovely sunset photos before heading to Russ’s, where I arrived around 7:30. I gave him a big hug and wished him a happy birthday. We chatted about my travel plans, and I headed to bed by 9. I knew the monkeys and birds would wake me up by 5 a.m.

September 25. Sure enough, I was up by 6:30—but not from the wildlife. The cleaning ladies were chatting just outside the screen-only room. Since they needed to clean, I got up, drank the rest of the smoothie I’d made the night before, and took a brisk dip in the river. The water was icy, and I yelped, but it was incredibly refreshing.

After saying goodbye to Russ, I headed to the organic store for bread. They said it wouldn’t arrive until 9, so I stopped at L’Epicerie—same story. I went to a French bakery instead and devoured two passionfruit tarts. I only planned to eat one, but they were too good. Who knew when I’d next find authentic French pastries? I also picked up a loaf of whole wheat bread. Then I drove to Beata and had a cuppa Chino at a fancy breakfast spot. Their pastries were $8—too steep—so I settled for an apple tart. On the way back to Ojochal, I bought a pain au chocolat. I later found it was terrible microwaved but pretty good if crisped.

I’d been looking forward to returning to El Pavón waterfall. Russ had taken me there after the parade in Cortés on Independence Day. I parked, hiked down, and had a glorious swim. Three guys came by taking photos, and I briefly worried about my backpack. But they waved, and I reminded myself that Costa Ricans often go out of their way to maintain tourists’ trust.

I could’ve stayed for hours, but I wanted to reach Drake Bay on the Osa Peninsula before dark. I drove down the Pan-American Highway to Chacarita, then turned onto Route 245. Just before the bridge at Rincón, I turned onto a 20-mile stretch of pothole-riddled dirt road to Drake Bay. The road was brutal—steep ascents and descents. Without 4WD, I wouldn’t have made it.

After 90 grueling minutes, I reached Drake Bay around 4:30. I stopped to admire the beach, then looked for a place to stay. I considered sleeping on the beach but ultimately opted for something cheap. I found Casa Mariposa Drake for $22 and followed a terrible road to get there. I had to leave my car in the middle of the road, blocking another vehicle. After reaching Katrina, the owner, she offered me a room for two nights at 6,000 colones per night—about $11. I agreed and moved the car.

The room was large, with three beds, but the place was falling apart. The bathroom smelled awful—like vomit and sewage. It was sweltering inside, and though there was a fan, she asked me not to use it unless I was present. I aired out the room as best I could. Ironically, the next day I learned that Drake Bay Getaway just received a Forbes four-star review as one of the world’s top resorts. A reflection of income inequality, perhaps?

I wandered through town to check dinner prices. Most meals were 5,000 colones—about $9.50. I opted to buy eggs and cook instead. At the grocery store, I met Gabriel, a kind and enthusiastic cashier who also works at Rancho Corcovado Hotel. He starts at 3 a.m. to prepare for tourists leaving on 5 a.m. Corcovado trips. He said he only sleeps about three hours a night but was excited to switch to full-time hotel work in November—just eight hours a day. I admired his stamina. I ran into him again the next evening at Roberto’s, where I treated myself to fish.

That night, I walked along the quiet, low-tide bay. It was peaceful and calm. I needed to catch up on my blog and settled into a lounge chair I’d spotted earlier. A large crab skittered under the chair, and I lifted my feet instinctively—crabs scare me almost as much as snakes. I’ve had this fear since I was five, likely from a childhood trip to Europe where I was afraid to swim because of them.

After about an hour, a woman came out and asked if I was a guest at the hotel. I wasn’t. She politely asked me to leave. As my stepdad used to say, “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.” Back at the room, I couldn’t sleep. It was too hot, and people were coming and going all night. I kept the door open for air, so I noticed everything. I woke up the next morning completely bleary-eyed.

September 26. I hadn’t slept a wink. Only a cappuccino could help. Gabriel had recommended La Delicias for cheap food, so I went there and ordered huevos rancheros. My server, Oman, seemed friendly, and we chatted. He offered to show me a secluded but safe beach further south. I found it odd—nothing had felt unsafe here. Later, he messaged me saying he wanted to bring rum to make it “more fun” but didn’t have money. It felt off. Then he confessed he was sexually interested. I told him I was in a monogamous, committed relationship. The exchange made me uncomfortable. I told him I’d find the beach on my own and thanked him.

How strange for someone I spoke to for five minutes to be so forward. After an online wellness session, I set out on the trail. I hadn’t realized how well marked it was—I found the beach easily. I hiked for about four hours roundtrip, past Playa Cocolito, collecting around 50 plastic bottles from the high-tide line. I moved them above the tide zone, hoping someone would pick them up later. Aside from the bottles, the beaches here are pristine—far cleaner than Panama.

I would have walked longer, but night falls at 5:30, and I didn’t want to be stumbling back in the dark. As I neared town, bats began zipping past me. I also spotted a troop of capuchin monkeys jumping through the trees while a hawk looked on. The younger monkeys were playing and leaping—fun to watch. I’d come to Osa Peninsula to see wildlife, and I wasn’t disappointed. I’ve seen capuchins before, but I’d love to spot spider monkeys someday—they’re more elusive.

Back in town, I returned to Roberto’s and ordered tuna. I had stopped in earlier and couldn’t resist after seeing the plates coming out. I also got a smoothie—mango, watermelon, passionfruit, strawberry, and banana. It was amazing. A group from Spain sat nearby. I’d heard the water here isn’t great—supposedly many tourists get sick from it.

I’m still puzzled why I keep being charged 20% more than the menu price. It happened again, and I didn’t ask. Maybe it’s a credit card fee?

Later that night, I got one more message from Oman asking if he could come to where I was staying. I cringed—remembering I’d told him earlier where I was staying before he got flirty. I hoped he wouldn’t show up. Maybe I’ll end up using that electric shock device I carry for more than just dogs.

September 27. I finally slept, despite the possibility of an unexpected visitor. Exhaustion will do that to you. I had opened the curtains the night to let air in through the screened windows. Since I was the only one staying on the top floor, I decided I had enough privacy.

It was my last morning in Drake Bay. I hadn’t lined up another place to stay and figured it would be easier to move on. I packed my things and said hello to Vanessa, a woman living at the hostel. She was feeding her son and niece in the small outdoor kitchen. She used to live in Puerto Jiménez and had moved here when a man offered her space on his farm—far from town, with no electricity or drinking water, and just a plastic tarp for shelter. She went there so she could keep making macramé jewelry to sell to tourists. Eventually, she decided it was better to live in town.

She showed me some of her work, and I was immediately drawn to an earth-toned bracelet featuring a ceramic turtle. It cost 4,000 colones—about $7. I thought of María, who had once given me a turtle bracelet I’d since lost. Unfortunately, I had no cash on me, and Drake Bay doesn’t have ATMs. On top of that, I’d been charged a 20% surcharge for using my credit card a couple of times. But Vanessa said not to worry—she wanted to gift it to me. I was touched. She said she’d also let me know if she could reach a friend in Puerto Jiménez with accommodations.

I took a short walk into town looking for a cappuccino but came up empty. So I decided to drive out to Playa Caleta before heading toward Puerto Jiménez. I took a wrong turn and ended up at Drake Bay Getaway. I saw they had a cappuccino machine and asked the owner if I could get one, but he said they were closed for the season. I could tell he was American by his accent. He explained that he and his husband had moved here in 2013 after getting married and built the resort together. It had recently received a four-star rating from Forbes as one of the top resorts in the world—an incredible honor. He mentioned that the process required nearly 60 pages of documentation and that the reviewers asked for a refund, which made it quite expensive for small operators.

He asked where I had been so far, and I told him about the trail to Playa San Josecito. He said it was the best trail in the area—almost as good as a tour of Corcovado National Park. That made me feel great. He said you could often spot tapirs, macaws, toucans, and monkeys along the way. I could tell he was busy, so I said goodbye and drove back to town.

On the way out, I stopped at Rancho Corcovado Hotel to ask about cappuccinos. No luck there either, but I found out it’s owned by a Czech couple. It had started to rain, so I waited for the storm to pass before tackling the dreaded pothole-ridden road. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Surprisingly, the drive went better than I expected—probably because there was more descent on the way in and I was more confident now. I passed a couple of slow-moving trucks belching thick exhaust. I had wanted to stop at Rancho Quemado but had just overtaken a Mack truck and didn’t want to end up breathing in its fumes.

Back on the paved road, I stopped at Soda Esmeralda. The food looked amazing, especially the chicharrones, but I had leftovers from the night before and was curious about another place I’d seen recommended on TripAdvisor. That place—Soda Leila—turned out to have glowing five-star reviews likely written by tourists who didn’t know any better. I decided I’d go back to Esmeralda on my way out of town.

I drove into Puerto Jiménez still hoping for a good cappuccino. At the supermarket, a gringa recommended Helen’s Café. I tried it but wasn’t impressed. Still, my luck turned: I ran into a group of women who looked like biologists—don’t ask me how I knew. Turns out they worked for the OSA Conservation Program and invited me to visit their Piro Station, about 13 miles outside town, at the literal end of the road (another terrible dirt one). They said I had to get there by 3 p.m.

I lingered for about 15 minutes before hitting the road and arrived at the campus at 2:30. I passed a beautiful bamboo building and crossed a wide river, then wandered around looking for the gatekeeper. I came upon a lab full of students working on projects. They directed me to the cafeteria, where I met a stern woman who told me they’d never had someone just drop in like this and seemed unsure what to do with me. She asked someone else, who said there was a bed available if I wanted to stay the night.

I hadn’t planned on it—and when I heard the price was $85, I politely declined. She said in that case I could pay $15 for a day pass to hike the trails, though she warned it was too late to start now. That struck me as odd; there were still nearly three hours of daylight. I decided to wander the campus anyway to get a feel for the place.

She’d asked for my ID and passport, and had shown me a trail map. I started walking, and before long, it began to rain. I headed up a river trail but turned around when it started to peter out. The rain darkened the forest significantly. I was especially interested in the trail with the massive Ajo tree—over 700 years old—dedicated to the station’s founder.

The sky kept darkening, so I headed toward the coast along a 1.5-mile trail that wound through mangroves. It led to a beach known as a nesting site for sea turtles—one of OSA’s major conservation projects. On the way, I passed two men near what looked like a caretaker’s house, then saw a truck. I figured I’d just keep going until I was told otherwise or it got too dark.

By the time I returned from the beach, I was soaked and ready to go. As I headed toward my car, a ranger stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained that a former biology professor of mine had worked in Costa Rica on plant-pollinator relationships and inspired me to visit. I told him I’d studied biology and environmental studies and was keen to learn more about Neotropical ecology.

I expected him to be stern, but instead, he lit up with a big smile. “You just missed the mono titi,” he said—the squirrel monkeys. He pointed out where they’d just been. What a shame I’d missed them, but I was grateful for the kindness. Meeting him made me feel better about the whole place. I hoped there were more conservationists like him in Costa Rica’s future.

It was 5:05pm, and I had just 30 minutes to reach my camping destination and set up my tent before dark. The problem was, I didn’t know where I was going—and there were still several rough miles ahead. I said my goodbyes and drove as quickly as I could. To the literal end of the road. The surfer I’d met in Santa Catalina had driven up to the waterfall. Or at least that’s what he claimed.