October 8, 2023, Costa Rica. Tom and Jean invited me to the Friends meeting this Sunday. Normally, it’s an informal “popcorn” style gathering without a leader, but this time it was a memorial for Mike West, a Quaker who had moved here from the U.S. a few years ago. Mike had lived with a local Tica family during that time, and they were there at the memorial. It was heartbreaking to see the family patriarch crying. From what people said, it seemed Mike had taken his own life. There was a strong sense of regret and sadness that they hadn’t been able to stop him. His last words were “voy al médico.”

Listening to the heartfelt tributes, it was clear Mike had single-handedly kept the Friends church and school afloat. He was known for regularly paying for drinks at the bar and fixing everyone’s bicycles. A big bike and pool enthusiast, he also loved hiking alone in the forest—a vital way for him to recharge.

I cried several times throughout the memorial. Between those gathered in person and those joining over Zoom—his wife, ex-wives, and others—many words were spoken. Spanish parts were translated afterward into English by a lovely older woman leading the memorial, while locals translated the English in real-time. When the meeting ended, teary-eyed, I headed to Stella’s café. I hadn’t yet tried their latte and wanted to. I shared what had happened with the server, who told me he had recently lost someone to suicide as well. Very sad.

I hadn’t hiked at the institute before, so I decided to explore the trails. It started raining again, cutting the hike short, but I still got a good sense of the area. I also walked a small trail next to the Eternal Children’s Forest. Knowing I had a long drive ahead and needed to vacuum the car, I started winding my way down the circuitous road toward the main highway. What a difficult road! Luckily, I was listening to the audiobook The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. A motorcycle started tailgating me, so I pulled over to let him pass—I don’t like being tailgated by someone who might pass without warning.

Checking the map, I saw I’d be passing a town of some size, so I decided to find a do-it-yourself car wash. Right on cue, it began pouring as I pulled up. It wasn’t self-service, but the guys were very kind and let me vacuum my car to my heart’s content—without charging me. Amid the chaos, I lost one of my tent stakes. This area felt much more run-down than anywhere else I’d seen in Costa Rica, and I’d soon realize this would be the case all the way to the Nicaraguan border.

Eventually, I reached the turnoff for Playas del Coco near Iguanita. Little did I know how fitting the name would be. I arrived around 5 p.m. and asked if I could camp. I’d hoped to wild camp, but this was part of a national park. I never quite know what I’m getting into when I pick a spot blindly on the map. I walked along Bahía Ballena, first one way, then the other. By the time I returned, it was dark. I noticed a light on one side of the beach. I thought it might be trouble—as my dad used to say, no goodniks—but it turned out to be fishermen. I learned this the next day.

That evening, I had a long conversation with a young Nicaraguan man working as a cashier. He’d come to Costa Rica as a three-month-old when his mother brought him across the border. We talked about U.S. politics, which he found very interesting. He helped me move a picnic table so I could pitch my tent under a thatched roof. Eventually, the park ranger told him he had to return to his post.

I took a walk on the beach to look for my tent stakes, thinking they were still in my pack. No luck, but I dodged plenty of crabs. When I returned, hermit crabs were everywhere around my tent.

October 9. I was anxious about crossing the border and didn’t sleep well. I needed to clean the car, so I decided to leave the park around 9:30 a.m., after a morning walk on the beach. When I got back, iguanas were jealously guarding my tent—probably 20 or 30 of them. Some blocked my path. I needed to finish my papaya and banana, and within moments I was surrounded by these fierce-looking creatures. They may look slow, but they move fast! I ate a bit and left the rest of my fruit on another table as an offering for the birds, tossing some on the ground too.

An oversized alpha male gobbled the fruit in two seconds, then jealously guarded the table like it was his territory. Although he couldn’t reach the table, everything on it was his. Other iguanas snuck behind him and quickly ate everything, including the papaya skins and banana peels. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, so I decided to leave early and get a head start on crossing the border. The car wasn’t due back until 4 p.m., but returning early felt like the smarter choice—and I couldn’t have been more right.

It was pouring rain. I’d looked for a café in the border town but found only an ugly cement building serving weak coffee with creamer. I took shelter under the roof of a gas station and organized my things. I gave much of my leftover food to the gas station attendant, who was grateful.

Before I left, the park ranger who had been so friendly wished me a good trip and hoped I’d return someday. I mentioned the iguanas, and he agreed: demasiado—too many. On my walk the previous night, I’d come across a spot with crocodiles, though luckily I didn’t know it until the next morning. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.