October 1, 2023, Costa Rica. I’d left Rancho Los Palos and headed to Cartago. It was a Sunday and I didn’t expect much traffic. I’d found a swank café called El Mosaico and had been working on my blog. My phone, which served as a pocket computer, had just erased four hard-won paragraphs without warning. Damn! I’d been surprised by the traffic. Cars were weaving in and out erratically, and police and ambulances were zipping through town. The café was lovely but expensive—$14 for a cappuccino and a slice of cake.

Still in Cartago, I headed to the Lankester Botanical Gardens and spent an hour and a half—much longer than planned. I wandered on and off the main trail through 27 acres containing over 3,000 native species. The orchid collection was impressive, as was Costa Rica’s only Japanese garden. Lankester moved from England to Costa Rica in 1910, when he began collecting orchids. In 1924, he bought a coffee farm with a large lagoon which attracted migratory birds. He reserved an area of the farm for orchids and other tropical plants, which his daughter inherited and sold to the University of Costa Rica in 1973. The botanical garden has since become an important research facility for the study of orchidology in Central America.

On the route to Puerto Viejo, I saw a motorcyclist sprawled on the ground, clearly injured and not wearing a helmet. It was traumatic to witness, though I wasn’t surprised, considering how motorcyclists drive here. The drive itself was endlessly frustrating. The road wound through stunning mountain scenery, but I didn’t stop—knowing I’d end up stuck behind the same slow, smoke-belching trucks I had just passed. It was a shame. The mountain towns were quaint, the vistas spectacular. As usual, it was raining, which made me even less inclined to pull over.

As I reached the outskirts of Limón, I saw, for the first time in Costa Rica, clear signs of poverty and garbage. People lingered along the roadside, as if waiting for someone to break down. It felt strange. The rain intensified as I left the urban squalor and entered more pristine lands of the south. It was a relief to see tall trees again. The road became rougher, and I hoped I’d reach Cahuita before dark. True to form, I arrived just as the downpour worsened.

I drove along the beach, hoping to find a place to camp. Puerto Viejo looked like a party town and didn’t feel welcoming to campers. It was already dark, so visibility was poor. I stopped at El Amor Restaurant, which had a friendly and well-lit parking lot. The server was kind and let me use the Wi-Fi to look for places to stay. I considered ordering something, but the prices gave me sticker shock. When I asked about camping, he recommended Playa Negra, which turned out to be valuable advice.

I went to a soda and ordered chicken fajitas. I hadn’t realized they would be drenched in jerk sauce, which I hate, but I ate a bit out of hunger. My stomach started hurting almost immediately. It was an expensive meal, considering I could barely eat any of it. I left in search of Playa Negra.

When I reached the beach, I asked a motorcyclist if it was safe to camp there. He said no—it was too isolated. That made me nervous. When I asked if there were “bad people,” he didn’t answer directly. Still, I decided to take my chances and drove a few more miles until I found a spot under a tree. I waited for the rain to stop, set up my tent, and tried to sleep.

Later, I smelled smoke and got up to investigate. Someone had left a large fire burning nearby on the beach. I dispersed the logs and smothered them with wet sand, then climbed back into my tent—now covered in sand myself.

October 2. I woke early, baked out of my tent by the sun, and realized I had camped next to a garbage heap. No wonder it had smelled like poop. The area seemed much dirtier than other parts of Costa Rica, and I wondered whether it was due to demographics. I packed up my things and laid out the tent and rain fly to dry.

Women in yoga gear were already walking along the beach, striking their usual poses. I wondered why they always seem to wear Lululemon—it’s like a uniform, as if they’re aliens in matching space suits.

I felt I deserved a good breakfast and drove into town. I had read about Café Rico, a funky garden café, and decided to give it a try. The cappuccino was disappointing, and the food prices were high, so I didn’t order anything else. I stayed for a bit, using the Wi-Fi and chatting with a couple about their travels. Alex Ljubimow also returned my call about investments.

Afterward, I walked across the street to check out a nice-looking hostel. The six-bed dorm was air-conditioned, and the lush garden and pool area made the space feel noticeably cooler. I kicked myself for not staying there but didn’t want to risk sleepless nights if the other guests were noisy. Puerto Viejo has a reputation for late-night partying, and I’m still traumatized by past dorm experiences.

I then tried a recommended bakery, but there was no seating, and it was stiflingly hot. I bought a pain au chocolat and took it to the beach, sitting on a log near some locals. It was mediocre. Later, I wandered into a clothing shop that smelled overwhelmingly of patchouli. It reminded me of a hippie brothel on Haight Street. The woman working there was friendly and mentioned that all the purses were handmade in Costa Rica.

The heat was oppressive, so I gave up on town and headed toward Manzanillo. I stopped at Le Chameleon, a boutique hotel reportedly built by a former Costa Rican president who had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. The grounds had a jungle-like feel, but again I noticed the smell of sewage—likely a result of the area’s septic systems. The pool looked inviting, and one man was lounging under a large umbrella. It was a fancy place, but not unlike others I’ve seen. Across the street, a beachfront café had hung sheets from tree branches for aerial acrobatics. A man was coaching a young girl through a headstand while her mother looked on.

Back on the road, I continued toward Manzanillo. As I drove, the forest closed in around me, evoking the feel of the Osa Peninsula—my kind of environment. Towering Ceibo trees lined the road, which surprised me. They’ve been logged out of most of the country. On the return drive later in the day, I noticed new home construction and signs of logging, even here. This place, too, was falling to the building craze.

When I arrived at the park, I walked to the end of the road and saw a sign requiring visitors to register. A woman told me I could hike about two kilometers, as the park was closing in an hour and a half. I signed in and started down the trail. Although the official closing time was 3 PM, enforcement seemed lax. I had hurried toward Playa Bito, trying to beat the clock.

Along the way, I spotted a sloth, several monkeys, a toucan, and a squirrel that fell at least 50 feet from a tree—only to scramble back up again. I was wearing flip-flops and moving fast, which gave me a painful blister. I walked nearly four miles in total and hobbled for the rest of the day.

I met a friendly German couple, Julia and Eric, who were lying on the ground to get a better view through their binoculars. Eric pointed out a toucan, and in return, I showed them a sloth someone had pointed out to me earlier. I promised Julia I’d send her the video. Right then and there, I decided to stay an extra day in Manzanillo.

As they left, we said goodbye. I grabbed my swimsuit and went for a swim. A few minutes later, I saw them again—this time riding bikes with coconuts balanced on their handlebars, headed off to snorkel. I floated in the water for a while but struggled against the riptide. It felt disorienting, especially since I’m normally a strong swimmer.

By that point, I was hungry, having only had a pastry and some gelato. I searched for a cheap dinner but eventually paid $13 for a mediocre chicken dish. I had scouted a few places, including a soda, and settled on Joanna’s without realizing they added a 10% service charge. The rice and beans had coconut butter, which I found unpalatable. At least the chicken had garlic instead of jerk, just as I had asked. After dinner, I chatted with Shawn for a bit, then returned to Puerto Viejo, where I met Natalia from Brazil, who made seed jewelry.

I gave a woman named Stacy a ride to her caretaking job near Bohemian Beach on Playa Negra. She was overheated and lugging a large backpack, having just returned from Colorado. She appreciated the ride and offered to let me camp in her yard and shower the next morning. I ended up declining—the yard light was too bright, and I didn’t want to upset any neighbors by pitching a tent on “their” beach. I saw her the next morning, but she didn’t bring it up, and I didn’t either. It felt like the offer had quietly expired.

October 3. Another early morning. I got up quickly, aired out my gear, and went in search of a different breakfast spot. Bread and Chocolate had been closed the day before, but I had read good reviews, so I headed there. I wasn’t sure what to order, and it was already hot. I took a table for four under a ceiling fan and told the staff I’d move if they needed it. They weren’t sure about that and had to discuss it among themselves. Eventually, they said it was okay. I should’ve ordered pancakes or waffles, but I ended up getting eggs instead.

The meal was underwhelming—not much food and overpriced. The cappuccino, however, was very good. I left and continued toward Manzanillo but spotted De Gustibus Bakery on my right and decided to stop. I ended up staying there for a counseling session with Shawn. The breakfasts looked fantastic, and I regretted not ordering something. Unfortunately, the bakery was closed the next day, so I missed my chance to try their waffles or pancakes. The cappuccino was the best I’d had in weeks. They also made pastries and bread. What wasn’t to love?

Around 12:15, I headed to Manzanillo, hoping to hike to Punta Mona. I started off at a quick pace, knowing the hike would be long. When the trail ended at the water, there wasn’t much to see, so I followed a smaller path along the coast, looking for a viewpoint. It wasn’t clearly marked and at times felt like private property. Birds nesting in banana groves startled me, and the area felt eerie. When I heard a dog bark nearby, I decided to turn back.

The trail looked like it might have been a road at one time—a wide swath had been cut through the jungle. I returned to the entrance, tired and sweaty. Since I’d learned the day before that the park didn’t strictly enforce closing hours, I took my time getting back and arrived around 4:30. I had a good conversation with Walter, a guy working at the snack bar selling coconut water and flesh. I was parched and bought one. He shared his travel dreams and asked about mine. I told him to check out my blog for ideas about Europe. His enthusiasm was refreshing, and I told him I’d check in again after a swim.

I swam in an area between anchored boats and fishermen, hoping I wouldn’t get caught in a fishing line. The water was warm and comforting—no shock at all. I had hoped to chat more with the young man at the kiosk, but he had already left for the day.

Hungry after the hike, I returned to a Rastafarian barbecue spot I’d seen earlier. I connected with a kind server, a young woman from Paso Canoas, Panama, who had just started working there two weeks ago. She knew the owner—a kind Jamaican man who was helping her gain work experience. I asked if I could rinse off and she let me use the hose out back to wash off the salt.

I also needed to wash clothes, which were thoroughly soaked in sweat. I got everything ready but couldn’t find my soap. I thought it must have rolled under the car. Losing things is one of the most frustrating parts of traveling. I even drove back to search again, but no luck.

Dinner was satisfying—the chicken was flavorful and genuinely barbecued. The young woman mentioned she was getting a chip implant the next day for birth control. Her boss had promised to drive her to San José. I was glad for her; raising a child at her age would be difficult. She was kind and easy to talk to, and I appreciated the conversation.

October 4. This was my last day in the Puerto Viejo area, and I didn’t want to leave. I had been looking forward to breakfast at a bakery whose name I have forgotten, but it was Wednesday—and the woman from the Rastafarian place had told me many places close midweek. She was right. I was frustrated, driving from one promising resort café to another, but the food was overpriced and unimpressive.

Eventually, I drove to Cahuita, where I had originally considered camping, and ate at a recommended restaurant. It wasn’t very good.

I wanted to visit Cahuita National Park and began walking the trail. Almost immediately, someone pointed out a yellow arboreal pit viper resting beneath a leaf. I later saw a brown one, too. The park was beautiful. I spotted monkeys and a few birds. A man had offered me a snorkeling tour earlier, but I declined. I felt pressed for time and didn’t want to overcommit. I walked out to the point and a little beyond it, hoping to see around the bend, but eventually turned back. At one point, a monkey walked right past me, and I captured a great video of a blue morpho butterfly.

I didn’t want to leave, but I needed to make progress before nightfall. I hit the road and slogged through traffic for three hours, arriving in the evening. I found a hotel restaurant serving typical food and sat near the river, working on my blog. Afterward, I asked about a good spot for coffee, wandered around a bit, and then drove up a mountain toward a trail marked on Google Maps.

I figured I could camp at the base of the trail, but it turned out to be part of a private nature lodge. I felt uneasy, worried someone would find me. Not long after setting up, I heard ATVs coming up the path and panicked, thinking the owners—or someone who knew them—were about to discover me. Luckily, the ATVs didn’t make it up the hill. I sat in my tent, tense and waiting. Eventually, I managed to fall asleep.